The Christmas Tree

Fencerows

By John Luthens

Christmas put me in an impatient mood when I was a boy.  I knew it was coming when, somewhere around deer hunting season, the town put up the holiday lights and Bing Crosby started on the radio.  It appeared on the distant horizon like the smoke from a red-sleighed freight train but never seemed to get any closer.

Searching out the Christmas tree was the turning point.  When that happened, the jolly bearded engineer who drove the freight train finally started to put the hammer down.  The tree was more than a mere holiday symbol.  It was the multi-colored flashing signal that heralded the train’s arrival.

Timing was everything.  My dad knew where the tree was.  He’d searched out more than deer during his forays into the northern Wisconsin stands of balsam and spruce.  The weather had to turn in our favor before he’d pack the family into the truck and bushwhack them back into a living snow globe.

We’d tunnel through the trees, pulling a sled and toting a cross-cut saw in search of the perfect specimen. It was an adventure. The wind blew avalanches of snow off the boughs and down the necks our jackets. We went through the merits of a lot of trees and lost ourselves around in the snowy groves more than once, finally arriving at the one my dad had chosen to begin with, hacking it down with cold and wet mittens and pulling it home to be decorated in victory.

The memories of finding the tree outweigh the memories of putting it up.  It was a struggle to get it perfectly straight, there were burned-out bulbs to contend with, not to mention boxes of ornaments to be ripped open and strewn about the branches.  It was a testament to my parent’s patience.

My brother and I were excited, and after a few cups of pure hot cocoa hyperactivity, we were climbing the branches. There was choice words of Christmas cheer bantered about when the first of many delicate glass balls, that according to my mother had been in the family for generations, went shattering to the floor.  Through the glory of the Christmas tree, I learned to cuss like a sailor and still believe in Santa Claus all in the same breath.

I’m all grown up now.  Our Christmas tree comes from a wholesale lot and we’ve been kicking around the idea of an artificial.  Putting it up is still an adventure in itself, just more of an indoor one.  My kids have broadened their seafaring vocabularies.  And it’s a good thing my brother and I broke all the sentimental ornaments that had been in the family for generations, because the one’s that get broken now are only expensive.

The only thing missing is the best part, wandering out into a snow-covered world to find it. So while on a hunting excursion this fall, I was understandably excited at finding the black walnut tree.

The tree was loaded with nuts and I mentally filed the location away till the season got right and the nuts took a notion to fall.  It would be good cheer for all and I wouldn’t have to haul in a portable deer stand to climb up and get them.  I forgot that the squirrels probably already knew about my chosen tree, but the holidays are a time to share.  They couldn’t be that greedy.

The first December snow of the year was the time. The spirit was in the air, it was cold, it was windy; it was time to hunt down the Christmas walnut tree.  Tears of nostalgia were shed.  Half of my family thought I was crazy, but I convinced my son to come on the premise that black walnuts would taste great baked in Christmas cookies and it was better than sitting inside and doing homework.

I vaguely remembered the location, but with 4 inches of snow on the ground and the white stuff still coming through the branches, the trees take on a high level of disguise.  Without the nuts and leaves on the tree, I’ll have to admit that I can’t tell always tell a walnut from an oak.  I did remember that it was on the edge of a cornfield, which was helpful, although the corn was certain to be picked off.  I followed the squirrel tracks to get close.

I know what you’re thinking: lots of squirrels and half-shells, and no walnut-baked cookies, but when we got to the tree, there was still 5 acres of corn standing alongside it, and by the look of the shelled cobs and cornstalks strewn about the place, the furry little rodents preferred the field to the walnut tree.  It was a genuine Christmas miracle.

I later heard, through the local rumor mill, that the combine broke down before the last of the standing corn was harvested.  I’d imagine for the farmer it wasn’t a miracle at all- it was more of a “Bah, humbug,” although I’m sure that wasn’t the exact phrase he used when the machine went down.

The nuts were big and round like Christmas balls, buried beneath the snow, hidden and waiting for the harvest. You could feel them crunching under your boots.  We made piles of the things, filling a knapsack till the seams sagged. 

There were so many of them, that an impromptu game of baseball broke out in the snow beneath the walnut tree.  I hit the game winner using a fallen branch, smacking a walnut drive deep into the cornfield while the squirrels cheered. Then my son and I walked back through the drifting world together, toting a sack of nuts instead of pulling a tree on a sled.

When we got home, it was just like the Christmas tree episodes I remember from my youth.  It was a lot more fun getting it than actually dealing with it once you got there.  The outside husks had to be peeled away from the inner nut, squirting green juice and staining everything it touched into a fine, natural walnut hue – my fingers and the kitchen floor included.

The nuts themselves were far too hard for a conventional nutcracker.  I spilt them using a hammer for an axe and a pocket knife for a maul.  Then the actual nut meat had to be picked out of the inside seams with a dental pick.  It took the better part of a day to get a pint of nuts.  The cat got into the shells and I’m sure we’ll be finding stray remnants well into next summer.

But in the end, the cookies themselves turned out wonderful.  The taste of wild nuts is far stronger than those that are commercially raised.  It’s not unlike smelling a fresh-cut balsam tree compared to an artificial one.  I even made enough to bring a tin to the farmer for a Christmas present. It won’t make up for a broken combine, but it’s a start.

I want him to know that he allowed me to visit the ghost of Christmas past and all is right with the world.  He doesn’t mind me trekking his land, but I’m working up to a turkey hunting relationship.  It’s the season of giving after all.  Not a time to be selfish.

John Luthens uncovers a Christmas stash of black walnuts.

Tyler Luthens pitches another walnut over the plate.