Christmas '82

Our girls today still reminisce fondly about our annual trek into the high country to pick out and fell our Christmas Tree.  Not that they follow the tradition which provided fodder for a column almost 25 years later.  Today one goes to the attic to get her tree, another visits King Soopers and the third gets her freshly cut tree from North Carolina via Fed-X.  Ain’t tradition wonderful? 

December 12, 1982 

     Tradition.  It’s the ingredient that makes Christmas memorable and so special.

     Discussion of yuletides past usually centers on the activities, the people and, “Do you remember when so and so did such and such?”  A wistful glance over the shoulder toward a Christmas of yesteryear seldom touches on merchandise given or received.

     I was reminded of that fact while tromping through the snow last Sunday assisting the other members of Clan Maynard in our annual search for the perfect Christmas tree.  The past nine years have seen us join seven other families, on the first Sunday of December, for a collective tree cutting on Pinon Mesa.  The actual felling of the pine and fir is incidental.  It’s the gathering that’s become so important.

     Nine years ago we were just acquaintances, people who have moved west from somewhere.  A sprinkling of Denverites, some Nebraskans, an Iowan or two, and even a Californian.  We were people whose only common bond consisted of facing the Christmas season without relatives.  So we created our own family for an afternoon and spent a Sunday making like Paul Bunyan at Christmas time.

     Little did we realize back in ’73 that our outing would become almost as much a tradition as Christmas itself.  Not that the eight families involved are a close-knit group.  Some see one another but once or twice a year.  The day is memorable because it provides a yearly constant of seeing the same faces, being with the same people, each December.  The ritual of cutting Christmas trees provides an annual benchmark to measure the life of your family and you.  It’s also an event that requires reflection, a necessity when it comes to tradition.

     The babies we pulled on sleds through the evergreens on that first Sunday, the same tots who kept rolling of their Radio Flyers head first into the snow, are today junior and senior high school imps who hide behind cars only to stand up giggling to pelt we adults with snowballs.  The incoming missiles always catch us amidships just as we are in the middle of a hot chocolate slurp.  Snowballs fly every year, with the only change being the sneaky perpetrator of nine years ago is now a sophomore at the University of Colorado.

     New offspring have been welcomed over the years as a natural occurrence.  Last week it suddenly dawned on one parent that within five years a second generation could be joining our lumberjack parade. 

     The people making up our Christmas tree safari are no different than any other random sample of eight American families.  Since that Sunday nine years ago each family unit has been forced by the rules of life to stare tragedy in the face.  Some have taken a lot closer look than others.  Each has also seen the pendulum of joy swing their direction.  Indeed, the conversation last Sunday seemed to be dominated by the happy times of the preceding year.

     Last week we followed the schedule of previous years.  The day is never considered official unless yours truly gets his vehicle stuck in a mud hole and has to be pushed out by the assembled multitudes.  Then there are trees to be chosen, felled and strapped to trucks and cars.  Every year the Bronco’s must be cussed and discussed.  And always as the afternoon wears on, moms are implored to warm little hands chilled to the bone from packing too many snowballs.  Once the sun heads for cover behind a sandstone rise, it’s time to return to the valley and gather for a sumptuous potluck of pasta and salad in the home of the family who initiated our tradition.

     There, memories are rekindled in a manner reminiscent of a high school reunion.  We recalled the night we were serenaded by a Central High School musical group.  They stopped by after a concert, four years ago, and filled the living room 20 strong with body and song. 

     We laughed recalling the year four husbands lingered too long at the wine bottle and became engaged in a heated debate as to the best basketball shot between them.  Money was wagered and a ball found.  Eleven o’clock in the evening found our quartet shivering and shooting in the moonlight at a hoop standing alongside the driveway.  Wives wanted to go home but athletic honor was at stake.  After four ties, a winner was finally declared.  He captured the dough by making one shot in ten attempts.

     During last Sunday’s after-dinner conversation my gaze wandered around the room and noticed another change from time past.  Now it was the adults with that sleepy look in their eyes as the clock inched toward 10.  The youngsters were wide-awake.  It didn’t seem that long ago when our evening ended with sleeping babes being bundled for the chilly ride home.

     I often wonder if the Pinon Mesa rancher who allowed us on his land to cut trees nine years ago and who lets us come back every year knew what he was getting himself into.  I also wonder if he realizes just how important that day has become in our lives.