Hanging by a thread

There’s a wall in my house that we shored up this summer, not because it was going to fall down or anything. No, not that bad. It just had a sag in it. It was one of those walls that extends down from the ceiling and the cupboards hang on it and, over time, it began to sag, ever so slightly.

So we took a large beam and secured it into said wall and propped it back up correctly and the sag is gone. I speak of this wall because sunk inside its flesh of drywall, paint and mud is a small hook and tied to that hook is a string and tied to that string is our Christmas tree, all 18 feet of it.

That’s right, 18 feet.

See, it was a pleasant but cold day a few weeks back and I loaded Olivia and Boy Wonder and the dog and her awful breath into the truck to go get a Christmas tree out of our fine Flathead National Forest, where, for the low, low price of $5 you can bring Christmas joy to your house.

We struck out up the North Fork where I’d been eyeing some smallish Christmas-like trees a few days before. But then a snow came and all the trees, either good or bad, looked good. Snow has a way of doing that. You walk up to a tree. It looks good. You shake it, and find out it either:

A) Has three trunks.

B) Is barren on one side.

C) Is a larch.

D) All of the above.

So we wandered through the woods, looking for a tree and of course, it started to get dark and Christmas desperation set in and Olivia finally said, “How about this one?”

“Well,” I said. “It looks to be about 12 feet high.”

Which is not a problem since our ceilings in the living room are 19 feet.

So I fired up the chainsaw and dove into the tree. Just as the tree fell the chain came off the saw and instead of yelling “Timber!” I yelled, “Where’s you’re brother? I don’t want this to fall on him!”

Poof!

The tree fell and the snow whooshed off the branches and even then, it didn’t look too bad, considering it was getting dark and desperation was firmly setting in.

It took all three of us to get it to the truck and of course, I had but one small piece of rope to lash

it down. Still, we somehow made it down the rough and tumble North Fork Road we affectionately call Grimaldi Lane and only four or five cars tailgated us on the 10-mile trek back to town.

(Why is it that when you are going slow with an 18-foot Christmas tree lashed to your truck with your emergency lights flashing, people feel the need to ride right on your bumper? Are they getting closer for a better look? Do they expect you to suddenly speed up?)

At any rate, we got the tree in the house and stood it up and that’s when it went from 12 feet to 18 feet because it came within a foot of scraping the ceiling.

We attached the aforementioned said hook into said wall with a sad piece of string lashed to the

tree and so far, so good. The string has held. The hook has yet to budge or twist or come loose.

The knot has stayed fast.

You know what?

It must be Christmas.

Chris Peterson is the photographer for the Hungry Horse News.