"Christmas Tree Hunting" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Liam has always believed that certain memories glow warmer than others—little lanterns we carry into adulthood, their light unchanged by the passing of years. One of his brightest began on a cold December afternoon when he was ten years old, trudging through the pine, spruce, and balsam woods with Esther at his side.
Esther wore a red wool coat that day, faded in some places but still proud in color. A knit cap sat slightly askew on her dark hair, streaked with early gray. She carried a handsaw in one hand and a canvas rope in the other. Liam carried his own saw—far too big for him, but he insisted on taking it anyway. His voice, excited and constant, floated through the frosty air as he talked about school, sledding, the perfect Christmas tree shape, the wolf tracks they’d just passed, and how he might grow up to be a lumberjack like Charlie.
Esther smiled through it all, listening with that quiet attentiveness that children recognize instantly and trust entirely. She would nod, ask a soft question, chuckle at his exaggerations, and guide him gently through the deepening snow.
Charlie—her husband and one of Liam’s favorite grown-ups—had been a lumberjack in the old days. The stories he spun around the stove were so large and wild that Liam’s parents once told him he shouldn’t believe everything in them. But Liam didn’t mind. Truth hardly mattered when Charlie spoke of wrestling giant pines in blizzards, outrunning a bear while carrying a log on each shoulder, or meeting a talking owl who showed lost lumbermen the way home. Even the lies held warmth.
Esther, however, told no tall tales. She didn’t need to. Her life had been one long testament to grit and love.
She and Charlie lived simply in a four-room shack tucked deep in the pines, an outhouse even farther into the woods. The living room centered around an old oil-burning stove that hummed comfort into every corner. Money was scarce, but meals were abundant—venison stew, bear roast, snapping turtle that did taste remarkably like chicken. If it moved, Esther could make supper out of it.
She was strong, steady, and capable—a frontier soul living in the modern world. And to ten-year-old Liam, trudging beside her through the snow, she seemed like both a guardian and an adventurer.
They walked for nearly an hour before they found them: two perfect trees standing side by side in a quiet hollow, balsam boughs weighted with snow, their symmetry so uncanny that Liam whispered, “It’s like they were waiting for us.”
Esther touched his shoulder gently.
“Some gifts,” she said, “are meant to be found. That’s all.”
Together they cut the trees, laughing as snow cascaded down on them. Liam pretended he had done most of the sawing; Esther pretended to believe him. They tied ropes and began hauling their treasures home, the sound of their delighted chatter echoing softly among the pines.
Later, in Esther and Charlie’s little living room, Liam watched as Esther set her tree in the corner. Every light stood perfectly upright, each one carefully adjusted until it matched her quiet, simple idea of beauty. Garland rested lightly on the branches, and ornaments—fewer than most families used—glimmered like tiny captured moons. Snow pressed gently against the window. The oil heater murmured contentedly. Charlie told another tall tale. Esther shook her head without correcting him.
Warmth filled the room—not just heat, but something deeper, something that would lodge in Liam’s memory forever.
It was love, plain and unmistakable. The kind that didn’t need money or grandeur. The kind found in humble places: in stew shared with friends, in a red wool coat, in a walk through December woods, in two balsam trees waiting patiently in the snow.
Liam didn’t know then that some of life’s greatest gifts come in ordinary moments—made extraordinary because of the people who walk with us.
But he knows it now.
And every winter, when the scent of balsam drifts through the wee cottage, he feels their presence again—Esther’s patience, Charlie’s laughter, his parents’ quiet joy. All of them gathered like shepherds around the small but steady flame of memory.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now, as this December morning settles around me, I lift myself gently from the reverie. The wee cottage is warm, the oil heater of my childhood replaced by quieter comforts but echoing the same sense of peace.
Outside, it is cold—the kind of cold that sharpens sound and deepens color. Though the forecast promises clouds, the eastern horizon glows with hints of copper and peach, with a few soft gray accent clouds drifting lazily in the early light.
Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis moves through the room, stirring something ancient and tender in the soul. My mug of coffee warms my hands and, somehow, my heart. And a line I once read returns to me:
“We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to grow, to love… and then we return home.”
How profound that feels this morning.
For today, I am a visitor—passing through this moment, this hour, this chapter of winter. And as I pass, I hope to notice more. To observe. To listen. To savor the small beauties, just as I once savored a balsam tree discovered in the snow alongside a woman who lived simply and loved deeply.
So I take another sip of coffee.
I glance out the window as daylight strengthens.
And quietly, gratefully, I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some memories enter our hearts like lanterns--
lighting the path behind us,
guiding the way ahead.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
Esther wore a red wool coat that day, faded in some places but still proud in color. A knit cap sat slightly askew on her dark hair, streaked with early gray. She carried a handsaw in one hand and a canvas rope in the other. Liam carried his own saw—far too big for him, but he insisted on taking it anyway. His voice, excited and constant, floated through the frosty air as he talked about school, sledding, the perfect Christmas tree shape, the wolf tracks they’d just passed, and how he might grow up to be a lumberjack like Charlie.
Esther smiled through it all, listening with that quiet attentiveness that children recognize instantly and trust entirely. She would nod, ask a soft question, chuckle at his exaggerations, and guide him gently through the deepening snow.
Charlie—her husband and one of Liam’s favorite grown-ups—had been a lumberjack in the old days. The stories he spun around the stove were so large and wild that Liam’s parents once told him he shouldn’t believe everything in them. But Liam didn’t mind. Truth hardly mattered when Charlie spoke of wrestling giant pines in blizzards, outrunning a bear while carrying a log on each shoulder, or meeting a talking owl who showed lost lumbermen the way home. Even the lies held warmth.
Esther, however, told no tall tales. She didn’t need to. Her life had been one long testament to grit and love.
She and Charlie lived simply in a four-room shack tucked deep in the pines, an outhouse even farther into the woods. The living room centered around an old oil-burning stove that hummed comfort into every corner. Money was scarce, but meals were abundant—venison stew, bear roast, snapping turtle that did taste remarkably like chicken. If it moved, Esther could make supper out of it.
She was strong, steady, and capable—a frontier soul living in the modern world. And to ten-year-old Liam, trudging beside her through the snow, she seemed like both a guardian and an adventurer.
They walked for nearly an hour before they found them: two perfect trees standing side by side in a quiet hollow, balsam boughs weighted with snow, their symmetry so uncanny that Liam whispered, “It’s like they were waiting for us.”
Esther touched his shoulder gently.
“Some gifts,” she said, “are meant to be found. That’s all.”
Together they cut the trees, laughing as snow cascaded down on them. Liam pretended he had done most of the sawing; Esther pretended to believe him. They tied ropes and began hauling their treasures home, the sound of their delighted chatter echoing softly among the pines.
Later, in Esther and Charlie’s little living room, Liam watched as Esther set her tree in the corner. Every light stood perfectly upright, each one carefully adjusted until it matched her quiet, simple idea of beauty. Garland rested lightly on the branches, and ornaments—fewer than most families used—glimmered like tiny captured moons. Snow pressed gently against the window. The oil heater murmured contentedly. Charlie told another tall tale. Esther shook her head without correcting him.
Warmth filled the room—not just heat, but something deeper, something that would lodge in Liam’s memory forever.
It was love, plain and unmistakable. The kind that didn’t need money or grandeur. The kind found in humble places: in stew shared with friends, in a red wool coat, in a walk through December woods, in two balsam trees waiting patiently in the snow.
Liam didn’t know then that some of life’s greatest gifts come in ordinary moments—made extraordinary because of the people who walk with us.
But he knows it now.
And every winter, when the scent of balsam drifts through the wee cottage, he feels their presence again—Esther’s patience, Charlie’s laughter, his parents’ quiet joy. All of them gathered like shepherds around the small but steady flame of memory.
* * * * * * * * * *
And now, as this December morning settles around me, I lift myself gently from the reverie. The wee cottage is warm, the oil heater of my childhood replaced by quieter comforts but echoing the same sense of peace.
Outside, it is cold—the kind of cold that sharpens sound and deepens color. Though the forecast promises clouds, the eastern horizon glows with hints of copper and peach, with a few soft gray accent clouds drifting lazily in the early light.
Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis moves through the room, stirring something ancient and tender in the soul. My mug of coffee warms my hands and, somehow, my heart. And a line I once read returns to me:
“We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to grow, to love… and then we return home.”
How profound that feels this morning.
For today, I am a visitor—passing through this moment, this hour, this chapter of winter. And as I pass, I hope to notice more. To observe. To listen. To savor the small beauties, just as I once savored a balsam tree discovered in the snow alongside a woman who lived simply and loved deeply.
So I take another sip of coffee.
I glance out the window as daylight strengthens.
And quietly, gratefully, I begin this day.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some memories enter our hearts like lanterns--
lighting the path behind us,
guiding the way ahead.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
RSS Feed