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, he’d chopped a large notch in the trunk while Tyree and I threw ropes O N THE SHORTEST DAY OF THE YEAR, I sat waiting in the enormous leather chair near the door of my father’s Clarke County law office. This year, my feet could touch the floor. “Just sit still and be good,” Mrs. Burwell said, typing loudly over mid-height branches and pulled them up the side of the mountain. With a few more strokes on the downhill side, the tall pine crackled and tipped as we ran uphill, pulling on the ropes. It was a perfect drop. Ty chopped through the trunk, and I tied half-hitches to the lowest without raising her head. The office had been a clothing shop in the 1880s. branches as darker clouds drifted over the far Alleghenies. “Hurry up, Now, poinsettias filled the bright bay storefront windows. I studied the boys,” my father warned. “Snow’s coming in.” We lashed two ropes to our pressed tin ceiling as afternoon sunlight angled through the wide panes and saddle horns and, with a jolt, dislodged the tree from the snow. I almost across the polished floorboards. fell off Shannon as we turned down through the snow fields. Hours later,

“Wasting time, Jimbo?” my father joked as he emerged from his office, a snow had begun to sweep across the river at Low Water Bridge and I worn leather satchel in his hand. couldn’t feel my toes. “He’s been still as a stone,” Mrs. Burwell said, I leaned forward over Shannon to hide my numb face finally looking my way. “I think he wants to go from the wind on the last mile home. As the light faded, somewhere tomorrow.” my father took my rope and lashed it to Josie’s saddle.

“Think you’re ready?” my father asked, narrowing Finally, through the dark trees, pale amber lights blinked his eyes at me. from the house.

“Oh, yes, Papa!” I blurted, leaping from the chair. My mother stood in the porch light, eyes gleaming “I’ve been practicing with the ropes.” at the magnificent pine. “James, did you cut down that

“There may be a blizzard coming in,” he said as he big tree?” she asked with a smile. I just smiled back and turned to wish Mrs. Burwell goodnight and I flashed curled rope. For the first time, I had ridden up to Pine her a quick grin. “We’ll see in the morning.” Ridge to get the tree.

A bushel of McIntosh apples sat on the back seat Adorned with white lights and my mother’s finest of our white Rambler station wagon, next to a new ornaments, our perfect long-needle pine stood in our horse bit. I sat in front and gazed out the window, watching the bare trees front hall, stretching upward through the spiral staircase. Candles lit the drift by as we drove south through the rolling valley farmland, bordered by mantels and guests filled the house with festive commotion. Our yearly party to the east by the slate-blue curves of the Blue Ridge Mountains. was under way, and everyone was dressed up, just like the tree.

Once home, I had just time to pitch hay to the cattle, brush down the As I sat with my father by the fire, he gave me one sip of his hot buttered horses, and wash up before supper. Later, I snuggled under the covers in rum before I had to go up to bed. flannel pajamas and watched the tops of the maples dance slowly before a Tonight, he said, I was old enough. 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.” By JAMES N. DILLARD, M.D . | Illustration by PHIL As we climbed into the snow fields of Pine Ridge, the horses slowed and snorted thick steam into the cold air.