I cannot abandon my passion for real Christmas trees, and each year we decorate our late live tree with hundreds of unique decorations acquired in our round-the-world travels.
My love of real decorated Christmas trees has deep roots.
Many of my best early years were spent living in a then-rural area of British Columbia. At the time, our home just east of Vancouver was still a place where small farms and cows, pigs and plenty of chickens were common.
Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada.
Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada.
Create an account or sign in to continue with your reading experience.
Don't have an account? Create Account
Our house, constructed by my carpenter dad, was located on a relatively main road running between down-the-hill sawmill town Port Moody and more distant major centre New Westminster.
Our house looked across farms to heavily wooded Burnaby Mountain.
My father specialized in cement work like house foundations and retaining walls. Always, it seemed, he worked in the mud. Usually by B.C.’s soggy November he’d be laid off for winter and we then more or less managed on his small unemployment insurance income or cash earnings from odd jobs.
Survival and necessity often impose a need for creative thinking.
An inveterate explorer searching for scrap metals to sell, my father would take our half-ton truck almost anywhere into the bush. He realized the sloping nearby hills were laden with gorgeous fir trees.
And hence it transpired that for several years we ventured into those hills to cut Christmas trees on what was termed ‘Crown land.’ Neither Christmas tree farms nor artificial Yuletide trees had yet been invented.
By early December, we were in the bush from dawn to dark, cutting and hauling trees. Being in the bush in early December in B.C.’s lower mainland assures one of a short day and often plenty of rain.
My father did all tree selecting and subsequent cutting with his best hand saw. We never owned a chainsaw.
Dad would eye up a tree and decide if it would earn our family $3 to $5. Not worth hauling out of the bush for less. Then he’d fall the trees and I would haul them to assembly points.
As darkness fell, we’d begin hauling trees down the dark mountain slope to our truck.
The mountain slope was littered with windfalls like pick-up sticks and sometimes the remains of burned older trees cast down by bush fires. Over this tangled mass grew huge spear ferns which by winter had died and covered many fallen large trees with a mantle of brown entangled vegetation.
Often I’d rest in the dark, listen to wind and rain and imagine the warmth in so many lighted homes on the flat land below.
I developed paths through entanglements of trees and ferns so that in the dark I could haul four to six trees simultaneously. A path always involved crawling over a fallen log and not infrequently falling into a hidden creek running beneath. Now and then I’d meet my dad who, by dark, also was hauling trees to our truck.
The small half-ton truck had eight-foot-high wood frame sides so that we could easily accommodate 100+ trees. By early evening, with all trees loaded and tied down — and us punishingly exhausted — we’d head several miles home to mom’s late dinner before off-loading the trees.
In a normal winter over a couple of weeks we’d make three to four tree-cutting trips into the hills.
At home, trees were displayed in our front yard held upright by holes punched in the ground with a heavy crowbar. A hand-painted wooden sign fringed with Christmas lights offered passersby opportunity to purchase a fresh-cut tree. Weekend traffic jams were common.
Until the late 1950s we cut, hauled and sold hundreds of Christmas trees. All cash transactions devoted to keeping our family alive over winter.
Income from trees often constituted a third or more of my dad’s entire annual income.
To this day, the tradition of a fresh cut tree remains a key part of our Christmas. I would not have it any other way and my late parents doubtless would agree.
Lloyd Brown-John is a University of Windsor professor emeritus of political science. He can be reached at lbj@uwindsor.ca.
Postmedia is committed to maintaining a lively but civil forum for discussion and encourage all readers to share their views on our articles. Comments may take up to an hour for moderation before appearing on the site. We ask you to keep your comments relevant and respectful. We have enabled email notifications—you will now receive an email if you receive a reply to your comment, there is an update to a comment thread you follow or if a user you follow comments. Visit our Community Guidelines for more information and details on how to adjust your email settings.
Brown-John: A Christmas Tree Story
18
1
22.12.2023
I cannot abandon my passion for real Christmas trees, and each year we decorate our late live tree with hundreds of unique decorations acquired in our round-the-world travels.
My love of real decorated Christmas trees has deep roots.
Many of my best early years were spent living in a then-rural area of British Columbia. At the time, our home just east of Vancouver was still a place where small farms and cows, pigs and plenty of chickens were common.
Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada.
Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada.
Create an account or sign in to continue with your reading experience.
Don't have an account? Create Account
Our house, constructed by my carpenter dad, was located on a relatively main road running between down-the-hill sawmill town Port Moody and more distant major centre New Westminster.
Our house looked across farms to heavily wooded Burnaby Mountain.
My father specialized in cement work like house foundations and retaining walls. Always, it seemed, he worked in the mud. Usually by B.C.’s soggy November he’d be laid off for winter and we then more or less managed on his small........
© Windsor Star
visit website
login
who are we?
contact us
qosheapp
Toi Staff
Gideon Levy
Belen Fernandez
Rami G Khouri
Mort Laitner
Donald Low
Ali Fathollah-Nejad
Nikkei Editorial
Michael Kwet
