Life’s Funny
On the Trail of Christmas Deep in the woods, three trees and a sweet mystery
By Maria Johnson
We rounded a bend
in the trail, and there it was: a small bare tree loaded with ornaments.
A spontaneous Christmas tree. We stopped and smiled. It was the perfect gift for our family last year. The boys were out of school. The dogs were out of things to chew on. All of us needed to go outside and feel the chilly air in our lungs. We took to the woods, as we often do. We were a mile or so in — it was hard to tell because the trail meandered so — in the middle of nowhere. It was the last place you’d expect to find anything man-made, except for maybe the rusting shell of a car or a lonely chimney that said someone had lived here long before you traipsed by. That’s what made the little tree so beautiful. It was as if someone — or some ones — had exalted the whole woods by putting one tree, gently, on a pedestal. But whom? And when? And how? And why? The questions tickled up smiles and scenarios. Had it been the work of a merry band of hikers? Lovers marking a special spot? An ornament sales person with an overstock at the end of the season? One of the ornaments bore a loop of faint pink ribbon. Perhaps it was a tribute to a loved one with breast cancer. We were flush with the joy of knowing we probably would never know the full story. At times like this, I’ve learned, the fun is in the mystery. We took pictures and tramped on. The clouds of our breath carried more stories about the possible genesis of the tree. It was a great way to spend an afternoon. A few weeks ago, when my older son, John, was home from college, we found ourselves literally in that neck of the woods again. I wanted to see the tree. Trails crisscrossed. This way. No wait, this way. We zigged and zagged until John said, “There it is.” The tree was a shadow of what we remembered. Only a half-dozen onion-shaped ornaments clung to the branches. The shattered hull of a plastic gold ornament lay on the ground. My heart plunged. What had happened to the other ornaments? I knelt and brushed away layers of wet leaves. No sign of the others. More questions. More non-answers. “We should bring some new ornaments,” my husband, Jeff, said. Everyone agreed. He and John walked on with the dogs. I stayed and stared at the tree. Surely, no one would have . . . “They’re 50 cents apiece!” a voice called. Another hiker was coming up the trail. His sturdy build and white goatee said he’d walked a few miles in his time. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
“I think people take ornaments as they go by,” he said. “Yeah, but there were so many . . .” I said. “Who knows?” he said. He stopped briefly to study the tree. “You know,” he said pointing through the woods, “there’s another tree over there. It’s covered with ornaments. Take this trail back until you get to a trail that parallels the road.” “Hey!” I called to my clan, barely visible through the sticks. “Come back!” We backtracked, sidetracked and fronttracked until we were dizzy. At one point, we were totally lost. We gave up on the trail and walked over the cushiony forest floor toward the nearest road. We intersected another trail and followed it. Again, John spotted the tree. It was the one we’d been looking for. I greeted it like an old friend. “There you are!” It had all of its ornaments — about thirty shiny balls, and ribbed balls, and faceted balls, and balls with starbursts inside indentations. Most were weathered. One ball, faded to white plastic, bore a loop of faintly pink ribbon. A tribute to someone with breast cancer? “Wait,” said John. “Is that another one?” Sure enough, about twenty yards deeper in the woods, was another bejeweled tree. This tree, a bigger beech, had more ornaments, maybe fifty, with an even greater variety: A marionette-type Santa; swirly spikes, a small sled; and a tiny, fuzzy pair of zebra-striped boots fringed with fur. Whoever did this — I now suspected a she — would wear those boots. I didn’t know her, but I liked her. We took pictures again, and Jeff marked the spot with an app on his phone. The dogs were getting impatient. We resumed our walk, our faith restored. There might be some who would tear down such delicate, lovely things, but you’d like to think that anyone who would venture that far into the woods would revere delicate, lovely things and let them be — or help them along. Farther down the trail. I remembered the first tree we’d found that day. The next day, I drove to a dollar store and picked up a few ornaments. One for the tree we first saw last winter. One for the well-dressed mother tree. And one for the scantily clad tree of mistaken identity. What will become of the ornaments? “Who knows?” as my white-bearded friend might say. Maybe someone will swipe them. Maybe someone will be inspired to add to the collection. Or maybe someone will simply stop and be inspired. In the stark light of winter, that would be enough. OH You can reach Maria Johnson at maria@ohenrymag.com. But don’t ask where the magical trees are. She isn’t telling. December 2014
O.Henry 21