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He nods. “I’ll get the sleds and saws. Sawyer, pull the truck around to the garage.”
I go with Sawyer to get the truck. As we back up to the detached garage, Colton tosses three, long, plastic sleds and two handsaws into the truck bed. Sawyer climbs out to let his dad take the wheel.
“How many are we getting?” Sawyer asks.
“Three,” says Colton. “Two for inside, one for the front porch.”
Colton’s truck has a small backseat that looks way too small for Sawyer, but when I try to climb up into it, he stops me, insisting I take the front. I buckle into the passenger’s seat and we take off down the road to a neighboring property with tons of conifers where Colton says he has an agreement with the owner.
We drive past the neighbor’s house and continue up a steep hill, then stop in a small clearing in the middle of the woods. I slide out of the truck so Sawyer can get out behind me. The sky is a purplish-gray, threatening to open up and bury us at any minute.
I tease on my mittens and pull up my coat’s hood to stop the cold from chilling my neck. The men each take a saw and a sled. I grab the third sled and follow them into the trees.
“This one looks good,” Sawyer says, pointing to a balsam fir.
Colton circles it, picking off dried twigs as he goes.
“The backside’s too sparse,” he says. “Keep looking.”
Sawyer rolls his eyes at me. “Strap in, kid. This is gonna take a while.”
I chuckle. We wander for a while, finally settling on two white spruce trees for inside the lodge. Sawyer holds the trunks while Colton saws them off at the ankles.
After a while, Colton suggests we start circling back in case we missed a good one. I can tell Sawyer is getting a frustrated by his dad’s glacial pace, but I don’t mind it one bit. Walking through the woods is like meditation. I time my breath with the crunch of my footsteps in the snow.
“Having fun yet?” Sawyer asks, hanging back to walk with me. Colton’s still within earshot, but I can’t tell if he’s listening. He’s like a bloodhound sniffing out the perfect tree, fussy and determined. Or maybe he just finds the process as relaxing as I do.
“I am, actually. I haven’t had a real Christmas tree since my parents were together, and even then it was always pre-cut.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six years, give or take.”
“How old were you when your mom joined the commune?”
“Thirteen,” I say.
“So, she joined right after they split up?”
“More like, her joining was the final nail in the coffin for their marriage. I only see her a couple times a year, but she texts a lot. How often do you see your mom?”
“Same. Once or twice a year, at most.”
“Do you wish you saw her more often?”
He sighs through his teeth. “Am I a bad son if I say, no, not really?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, chortling.
Colton stops in front of a balsam fir, kneeling to check the lower boughs. Sawyer joins him.
“It’s not tall enough,” Colton says.
“The hell are you talking about? It’s taller than I am.”
“The tree on the porch should be bigger.” Colton moves on. Sawyer sighs heavily.
“Dad, we’ve been at this for hours. Just pick a goddamn tree.”
