|Oh, our cedar tree|
Christmastree..Christmastree….when will we cut down our Christmas tree? That question hung in the air until Mom nudged Dad enough to take care of that yearly tradition.
Finally, we climbed up into the bed of the 1946 Ford truck and huddled together in frozen air on frozen metal, and smiled at the very thought of the tree. THE Tree that would be ours, stood on a white hill watching and waiting for us. Our Tree we exhaled through icy fogged air.
Powdery, fresh snow stays in my mind even now: stepping and then sinking up to our knees, laughing. Eagerness kept us warm as we raced ahead of Dad, who strode easily with the ax on his shoulder. This one?...How about this one?...No! Look, there is one!
Somehow the perfect tree was always found and Dad cut it down. Hoisting it up on his shoulder, we carried the starry top, never knowing just how heavy the tree truly was.
Scent of cedar filled the bed of the truck where the tree barely fit, with us tucked around and through it. We inhaled it cedar air down to our home, laughing all the way.