The document summarizes the author's experience chopping down a Christmas tree at a farm in Michigan. The author and her partner John went to Matthes Evergreen Farm, which offered treats, entertainment and Santa Claus. They had to walk through the snow to view the types of trees available. After debating different trees, they chose a Canaan Fir. The author struggled to cut it down due to wet clothes and needle-pricked fingers. Afterwards, they spoke to the farm owner Peg, who jokingly questioned if the author could be a country girl.

1. What, I Don’t Get an Ax?
Christmas tree-chopping in the country.
Thursday Dec 15, 2005 by Jennifer Wennig
After a longer than anticipated hiatus from my Traffic Jam adventures, that
country itch needed to be scratched. With the holidays approaching at
break-neck speed, I knew my city-goes-country resurrection would be in that "It’s
beginning to look a lot like Christmas" vein.
On a "perfect tree chopping day," John and I put on our boots, donned hats,
leashed-up the dogs and set forth to chop down that Christmas tree. Whenever
venturing into the country, I astutely comment that we are "in the middle of
nowhere." But this middle of nowhere was also the destination of several
hundred other holiday revelers looking to bathe themselves in the smell of
evergreens.
We emerged from the car at Matthes Evergreen Farm
(Matthesevergreenfarm.com) in Ida, Mich., a place that offered sweet treats,
warm drinks of the virgin variety and homegrown entertainment in the form of
cloggers, school choirs, dance troupes and puppeteers.
Another outbuilding housed locally made arts & crafts and fresh wreaths. Here,
Santa Claus listened to the "I want" of the young and old alike. With Rudolph and
the gang logging long hours of rest before their round-the-world journey, this
Santa arrived Trump-style in a helicopter. Not so country.
Having no idea of how this chop-your-own tree system worked, I set my sights on
an assured looking man with an armful of saws. My first thought was "how do you
chop a tree with a saw?" Much to my chagrin, I quickly found out that the trees
aren’t chopped. Trees are cut. Not exactly the Paul Bunyan thing I was going for.
I should have worn overalls and a flannel.
With stiff boots rubbing away at my heel, I agreed to walk the snow-covered
half-mile path to the evergreens that awaited my once over. Had we left Twyla
and Shalek, our aforementioned dogs, at home, we could have hopped aboard a
large horse-drawn wagon. But the doggies should have a say in which tree
comes home. If they didn’t pee on it we knew it passed Husky muster.
I referenced the hand-drawn map that detailed what kind of tree was where.
Among the offerings were Douglas Firs, Canaan Firs, Blue Spruce Scotch and
Fraser Firs. I don’t know about you, but I have a soft spot for trees that look more
Charlie Brown than Martha Stewart. It’s like adopting a dog that may be a little
long in the tooth instead of the wrinkly-faced newborn pup.
"Oooh, this one?" one of us would call out. Inevitably, each found fault with the
other’s choice. And so on, up and down, back and forth, diagonally. We must
have covered that ground 20 times, the trees fading in a hot toddy-like blur.
Mental note for next year: hot toddy-filled flask.
John began to realize that my embrace of that refreshing cold was beginning to
wane (you think?), and with the light of day beginning to fade, we finally agreed
upon a Canaan Fir. She was long and lean, with a few branches askew for added
charm. I grabbed the saw and put knees to snow.
Lesson one to my city friends: Bring a towel or knee pads because before the
blade even touched the trunk, my pants were soaked through. The space from
the ground to where the needle-covered arms began was nil, so with a face full of
prickly needles, I began to saw. And saw. And saw. And...nothing. Laughing
away, John suggested getting it started for me. With the roll of my eyes and a
mumbled "whatever," I momentarily relinquished my tool.
Lesson two: Forget fashion. Sure my striped, chenille gloves are darling. But they
sure aren’t waterproof and proved ineffective at preventing those persistent
needles from stabbing away at my chilled fingers.
John went at that tree with lumberjack-like gusto, but I was the one yielding the
saw when it cut clear through the trunk. Tim-ber. After the efficient Mattes’ staff
baled our eight-foot tree, we paid and sought warmth, sipping hot cider and
spending a bit of time with Matthes' Tree Farm owner Peg Matthes. Peg, with a
button reading "I’m a real live Christmas tree grower" pinned to her holiday
sweatshirt, proudly shared stories of the farm’s evolution.
I don’t think I came close to convincing Peg that I could be a country girl. First,
she coyly introduced me to the fresh faced high schooler manning the
refreshment stand as "being from the city." She then had a bit of fun pointing to
my hat and asking "did those grow from your head?" I’d forgotten about my
sunglasses. What, no sunglasses in the country?
Traffic Jammed
Last Christmas, John and I had an equally "It’s a Wonderful Life" moment
selecting a tree from the lot at North and Honore (now the site of a condo
building...bah humbug). There was something magical about walking home with
tree in hand (John’s hand). A bit less magical transcending several flights a
stairs.
To locate a tree farm a bit closer to Chicago, visit the Illinois Christmas Tree
Association at Ilchristmastrees.com. For city dwellers, many garden centers
stock fresh trees, including B.A. Florist & Nursery Co., 1000 W. Randolph
(Bafloristinc.com). No matter where you find your tree, do take advantage of the
city’s seasonal recycling program "Turn Green into Blue. Visit Cityofchicago.org
and click on "Recycle My Christmas Tree."
© 2005