Charlie’s Christmas Tree
by Blake Swensen
When I was growing up, we always trimmed our Christmas tree on my birthday. Living in Alaska, with a barn-storming pilot for a dad, the tree trimming experience often proved to be an adventure.
It was a sunny day, just before Christmas. The snow, like diamonds in the Macy’s window, sparked and sparkled. Cold to the core—below 20 maybe—maybe even 30—maybe 30 below! And into parkas, and snow pants and mittens and scarves we climbed… we looked like Admiral Perry’s kids. But instead of climbing into a sled, we climbed into the Red Bird.
Oh, yes, THAT plane. It was the one the nearly killed every one of the kids, together or separately, and tried to kill dad no fewer than three times. The plane, “Charlie,” never won the battle to take the life of a family member—my dad was just too good of a pilot—or just lucky. So off to find a Christmas tree. In a plane. In Alaska. In the cold. In mittens and scarves and snow pants and hats. We flew to find our tree. Most people would just drive. We flew.
When a small plane lands on a frozen lake, there is a small moment—just a moment when the engine’s noise nearly stops, and you can hear the crunch of the skis hitting down. A soft, satisfying crunch, like the crinkle of fresh sheets at the end of a hard day’s work. Like that sigh you sigh when the day’s over, when you know that relaxation, warmth, and eventually sleep will come. It’s like that. Just a moment of calm, crunchy relief.
At the edge of the frozen lake was the goal. The prize. A forest of Sitka spruce where was hidden that perfect tree. The trunk and boughs that would surrender themselves to decorate our home for the holidays. It hadn’t occurred to me that a 12 or 15 foot Sitka Spruce would never fit into the cabin of that tiny plane. But on we went, out of the plane, into the deep snow, and off into the forest like a merry band of Antarctic elves, possessed.
Being a kid at Christmas is always exciting. Even that piney smell can send a youngster into fits of stellar glee. But having grown up in Alaska, so near the North Pole, Christmas was even more special. After all, Santa was practically a neighbor. We kids just knew that the further north one went to obtain their tree, the more presents there would be under it come Christmas morning. The logic of this is flawless: the closer to the source of the magic, the more powerful the Christmas whammy. Santa knows from where comes the tree. This is well known.
So we searched high and low, carefully following dad’s big footprints, until, at last, there it was. Looking back now, I am sure that it was just another tree in a forest. However, in my memory, the tree stood out like a beacon in a meadow full of “not quite rights.” Gleaming. And when you are only four feet tall, even the most modest trees look like a towering giant. I am sure that the one we picked had to be 30 or 40 feet tall. Although getting it back to the plane would have been impossible for the other kids or me, it really was no sweat for my 14-foot tall father.
Now comes the real trick. Getting that bugger back to the house. That is, back to the house safely. My dad stuffed the titanic monster into a game bag. A game bag is a fancy way of saying, “long tube of cheesecloth designed for wrapping meat.” This technique turned the bushy tree into a sleek, missile-shaped package. A package just perfect for tying onto the plane’s wing strut. Let me say that again—tying onto the wing strut of the plane.
I remember looking out the red plane’s window of that red at the missile-shaped package as we flew, albeit leaning to one side, toward home. I imagined I was a fighter pilot flying low over the jungle of Viet Nam. I flew low to the ground, under suspecting radar. Over rocks and ridges, into valleys. Focused. Single-minded. And when I had the target right in the crosshairs, I launched my missile, “The Yule Time Marauder”. But instead of an explosion, a burst of light, and thousands of gingerbread cookies, all shaped like trees, fell into the hands of the villagers below.
As anticlimactic as it sounds, we landed safely. There was that common exclamation of my dad as the plane came to a stop, “Well, any landing you can walk away from is a good one.” I think he just said that to let Charlie know that he, again, had won the battle for his life. Nothing, not even Charlie, was going to spoil our tree trimming for that year. Especially considering it was his middle kid’s birthday. “Not today, Charlie,” I am sure I heard my dad mutter.
The tree trimming festivities always followed the same schedule. First, dad would get out the lights and a precious, but very well used lighted star. This star appeared on my parent’s first Christmas tree. Then dad would string the lights. Then came the tinsel and ornaments, applied by the rest of the family. Finally, and ceremoniously, my dad would pull out two delicate Santas.
They were kept away from the other ornaments in their own box filled with wood shavings. They were small, slightly chipped. They looked as though they had seen years and years of trees. Likewise, old elves, the keepers of the family tradition. Dad would remind us that these precious jewels were on his grandfather’s first tree. And so the tradition continued. The tree, even the “Yule Time Marauder,” became a symbol of more than Christmas itself. It became a link to our heritage and family. An icon for all that is really important about this time of year. For wherever our faith may lead us at this time of year, Menorah and Maccabees, or Christ and the sepulcher, it is the family that binds. The traditions and heritage of our kin.
A few years ago, at our first Christmas together, Emily and I bought two small Santa ornaments. We come together on my birthday every year with a few close friends and our boys, and after making popcorn strings and paper chains, we reach for these two precious Santas. We keep them in a special wooden box, packed with shavings. They are the last ornaments to go on our tree. We know that when Parker and Monroe are ready, they will put them on their first Christmas tree. Because it really is about family.
