A Man and His Tree

by Charles C Cole

The week after Thanksgiving was chilly but sunny. I followed my 13-year old daughter, Meghan, through the pine woods below our house. We were on an annual mission, to find the year’s homegrown Christmas tree candidate. Meghan was in a hurry, squeezing me in before her next phone call.

“I saw it last summer while picking blueberries,” she said. “The other side of the power line. I think it’s a Douglas fir. It really stood out. That one.”

It was a balsam, but I kept the info to myself. “A real beauty,” I said.

“Kind of scrawny, maybe, but with ornaments and lights—”

“We’ll make it work.” It was about sixteen feet tall. Extending my trusty bow saw, a gift from my father a few years before he died, I aimed for somewhere in the middle. “You don’t want to watch this part.”

“I just wish we could replant it after. My friend Julia has an artificial tree, but I know that goes against the Cole family MO...” She trailed off, keeping her most damning opinions to herself. “Meet you back at the house. Long live superannuated traditions.” And she was gone.

Yes, the tree was less than perfect, but she had picked it, and I took pride in the fact that it grew on our land, literal roots.

The saw was sharp and the work fast. The top half tumbled over with a wissk. Next thing I knew, there was a man standing behind my shoulder. He had no coat and sort of shimmered. His face had a hint of green.

“That’s all it takes?” he said.

“Private property,” I warned, straightening. “Can I help you?”

“You can uncut my tree.”

“Your tree?”

“My home. I’m the reason it’s grown so tall.”

“Come again?”

“I’m what you call the engine to that living machine.”

“You saying you’re a dryad?”

“Through and through.”

Though short on first-person evidence, Dad had often regaled us with hand-me-down tales of Nature’s elusive helpers. He’d been a true believer, while I’d been respectfully skeptical. I certainly never expected to bump into living folklore.

“Were you trapped inside, like a prison, or — and I apologize for sounding unfamiliar — are you the spirit incarnate of the tree?”

“I’m what you call an arborist, though I take human form for you. That was my life’s work. Its insides, dark and cozy, were my home until this moment.”

“You’re out. You’re free. You’re welcome,” I said, with a little too much self-congratulation.

“I feel... exposed.”

To my surprise, I felt bad for the guy, for what I’d done.

“Legs are wobbly things,” he added looking down at his new pair.

“Give ’em time,” I said. “Listen, we’re moving the tree inside — as strange as that might sound — for the holidays. You coming? You part of the package? Although I’m not sure how to explain you, you might find conditions a far sight better than out here in the cold.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, glancing down at the remaining stump. “Do you take care of the tree?”

“Some. We put it in a bucket of cold water to keep it from drying out. And we decorate it.”

“I’ve heard, or overheard, from other humans wandering through over the years, chitchatting while hunting deer that it’s like dressing it up for a formal occasion. But what happens after the revelry is done? Do you release it back into the wild?”

“By then, to be honest, the trees are usually dried out and brittle. I tend to tuck them behind my compost pile where the critters hang out.” I didn’t tell him about the Christmas tree bonfire — a funeral pyre to him — I’d seen on a beach one year.

“Can you put it back in the ground?” he asked. “That’s what I’d do.”

“It’s missing a key ingredient,” I explained, indicating my fresh cut. “Nothing to help it re-establish its oneness with the elements.”

“I’ll take care of that. When you’re done, bring it back. Maybe wrap something around the cut. I’ll do the rest. I’ve been working my special brand of magic for a long while. Now’s the time to make it count.”

“You’ll go back inside the tree?”

“It’s a better fit than you think.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“You didn’t know. Now you do.”

“Does every tree have a spirit?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“Many,” he said. “The ones that stand out.”

“I’ve never seen a tree heal back together.”

“You’ve never seen me in action.”

“Should I just leave it and go cut another one?” I asked.

“Quit while you’re ahead. Another wood nymph might not be so nice. We tend to take our work seriously.”

Returning after the holiday, I found the still-fresh stump. The now-familiar “man” rose up out of the ground like a gray mist. “I’ve been snuggling among the roots. Just not the same.”

“The tree’s pretty fragile, lost some needles,” I said.

“I’ll make it work.”

“I brought an old sheet.” He probably didn’t know what a sheet was.

I lifted the tree out of the trailer behind my little tractor. I hadn’t liked the idea of dragging the wounded through the woods. He helped me balance it on the cut.

“If you hold it steady,” I began, “I’ll—”

He was already gone. I could make out the cut, but it was definitely healing, fast. The tree was instantly perkier. I wrapped the sheet over the cut, for my sake, and waved goodbye. Maybe the tree didn’t need the sheet, but it would help me find the tree in the future. Maybe I would say hello or simply avoid the scene of the crime.

* * *

Next year we went with our first artificial tree. Meghan picked it.

Follow your own traditions, says I. But if a tree “stands out,” maybe go for the next-best. As for our recycled and revived totem, it is still there, but I have never again conversed with that spirit living in the woods.