Departure and stacked the dishes by the sink, my brother and I bolted to the front hall, where my father crouched next to the closet, sorting leather gloves. For the longest time, he did not look up. Then he stood and said, “Come on, boys. Get your riding boots on—double socks.” I was going! As we got to the barn, my father said with a sidelong smile, “Ty, you’re on Elvis, and Jimmy—try not to crush Shannon, will you?” He lifted down the tack and sorted it out for us. Like my father’s leather armchair, the Western saddle was too big for me, but with the stirrups cinched high, I climbed up into it and checked my tie-downs. My father carried the five-pound felling ax in a leather sheath. He mounted Josie, looked into the western sky, and led us across miles of snow-streaked fields to cross the Shenandoah River over Low Water Bridge. As we climbed into the snow fields of Pine Ridge, the horses slowed and snorted thick steam into the cold air. “Let’s take a look there,” my father said, turning Josie toward the tree line. There, in a grove of smaller trees, stood a 25-foot-tall long-needle pine, perfectly shaped. “What do you say, boys?” he said. We both nodded and reigned toward the grove. My father dismounted and unsheathed the heavy ax while I tied the horses to a sapling. In minutes, By JA M ES N. DILL A R D, M . D. | Illustration by PHIL he’d chopped a large notch in the trunk while Tyree and I threw ropes over mid-height branches and pulled them up the side of the mountain. With N THE SHORTEST DAY OF THE YEAR, I sat waiting in the a few more strokes on the downhill side, the tall pine crackled and tipped as enormous leather chair near the door of my father’s Clarke we ran uphill, pulling on the ropes. It was a perfect drop. County law office. This year, my feet could touch the floor. Ty chopped through the trunk, and I tied half-hitches to the lowest “Just sit still and be good,” Mrs. Burwell said, typing loudly branches as darker clouds drifted over the far Alleghenies. “Hurry up, without raising her head. The office had been a clothing shop in the 1880s. boys,” my father warned. “Snow’s coming in.” We lashed two ropes to our Now, poinsettias filled the bright bay storefront windows. I studied the saddle horns and, with a jolt, dislodged the tree from the snow. I almost pressed tin ceiling as afternoon sunlight angled through the wide panes and fell off Shannon as we turned down through the snow fields. Hours later, across the polished floorboards. snow had begun to sweep across the river at Low Water Bridge and I “Wasting time, Jimbo?” my father joked as he emerged from his office, a couldn’t feel my toes. worn leather satchel in his hand. I leaned forward over Shannon to hide my numb face “He’s been still as a stone,” Mrs. Burwell said, from the wind on the last mile home. As the light faded, finally looking my way. “I think he wants to go my father took my rope and lashed it to Josie’s saddle. somewhere tomorrow.” Finally, through the dark trees, pale amber lights blinked “Think you’re ready?” my father asked, narrowing from the house. his eyes at me. My mother stood in the porch light, eyes gleaming “Oh, yes, Papa!” I blurted, leaping from the chair. at the magnificent pine. “James, did you cut down that “I’ve been practicing with the ropes.” big tree?” she asked with a smile. I just smiled back and “There may be a blizzard coming in,” he said as he curled rope. For the first time, I had ridden up to Pine turned to wish Mrs. Burwell goodnight and I flashed Ridge to get the tree. her a quick grin. “We’ll see in the morning.” Adorned with white lights and my mother’s finest A bushel of McIntosh apples sat on the back seat ornaments, our perfect long-needle pine stood in our of our white Rambler station wagon, next to a new front hall, stretching upward through the spiral staircase. Candles lit the horse bit. I sat in front and gazed out the window, watching the bare trees mantels and guests filled the house with festive commotion. Our yearly party drift by as we drove south through the rolling valley farmland, bordered by was under way, and everyone was dressed up, just like the tree. to the east by the slate-blue curves of the Blue Ridge Mountains. As I sat with my father by the fire, he gave me one sip of his hot buttered Once home, I had just time to pitch hay to the cattle, brush down the rum before I had to go up to bed. horses, and wash up before supper. Later, I snuggled under the covers in Tonight, he said, I was old enough. flannel pajamas and watched the tops of the maples dance slowly before a quarter moon through the window. I couldn’t sleep. Saturday morning brought pale, streaky clouds of blue and silver over the James N. Dillard, M.D. served as a clinical professor at Columbia University’s Allegheny Mountains, but no snow. I wore my lined wool pants down to College of Physicians and Surgeons and was Medical Director of Columbia’s breakfast because I was going today. I knew I was going. Rosenthal Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine. He grew up in It was the slowest breakfast of my life. Finally, after we’d cleared the table Clarke County, Virginia, not far from Berryville.
The First Tree
“For the first time, I’d ridden up to Pine Ridge to get the tree.”
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As we climbed into the snow fields of Pine Ridge, the horses slowed and snorted thick steam into the cold air.
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