Christmas in the Lacloche Foothills

Growing up in our small northern town at the base of the Lacloche Foothills, getting a Christmas tree for our family meant heading out into the bush. It also meant being ready to follow the lead of a father who was notoriously particular about the selection of a tree. I say this with not a trace of bitterness: I loved this search out in the clean, cold forest air dwarfed by towering pines and elegant maples, birches and poplar in all their skeletal winter glory. Eventually a tree of the proper calibre would reveal itself and once we’d chopped it down and nestled it in the back of the truck, we’d head home under a sky deepening to charcoal, our damp wool mittens now stiffened with the cold. Peering back at the tree on the way home, a burst of elation and the sense that our beloved evergreen was about to fulfill its crowning achievement: to be the centre of Christmas activities in our home! This tree was going to be loved and trimmed with great care. And even if our hours-long search yielded a tree that wasn’t my father’s platonic ideal of a Christmas tree, he would proudly proclaim that our mother, with her keen decorating skills, could make any tree look beautiful, something we all knew to be true. I loved every part of this day, including the moment when, at last, the tree was jostled in from outdoors in a great shock of cold air and resinous scent of freshly cut balsam.

Later, as a newlywed, my husband and I would head out on a similar search. I was excited to start traditions of our own. Eventually, when we had children, we too would head out into the bush searching for the perfect tree. Over time, our enthusiasm extended to decorating the exterior of the house. Because we are surrounded by hundreds of acres of forest, and because we are judicious and careful with what we remove from the forest, we had the privilege of gathering boughs to decorate the front windows of our cottage home. What was at first a simple project, eventually fell to my husband’s ministrations—to considerable effect.

Before I knew it, he was making very specific choices of evergreen branches based on colour and texture. We’d return from bough gathering expeditions, sort the branches into piles by colour and size, and set to work. He devised a method for securing the boughs to the windowsills with lashing wire, and then we wound, poked and secured the boughs into place. Afterward, a sprinkling of lights, maybe a festoon of red berries, and the effect was complete. The house looked festive and nestled in, especially as it started to snow.

The boughs would remain in place for months adding a layer of comfort and warmth to the house while buffering the cold north winds. More importantly, they eventually became a refuge and feeding area for the birds.

Like all traditions, this one has changed a little over time. Some years, the time and energy simply aren’t there, and we pass on the project. In its place, another project burgeons, another idea germinates, a new tradition begins… because traditions, like life, have their seasons, and their ebb and flow are what make life rich, complex and varied.