A View From My Garden

December 28, 2005

There are, I believe, at least two living Christmas trees in my garden. One is a relatively recent and young Colorado blue spruce (Picea glauca var.) planted in an area where the soil is difficult because subsoil at one time was laid over the bed of an old creek. This allows for such good drainage and so little humus that a Saguaro cactus might be happy there. I do give the blue spruce a good soaking once or twice in the dry season. Many high mountain trees enjoy this sort of perfect drainage, high in minerals, low in organic nutrition.

The other is, I believe, and after consulting with a friend who has studied and been degreed in such matters, an Englemann spruce (Picea englemannii). It may not have been a living Christmas tree, because it is native to this part of the world, from here to the coast and from British Columbia to southern Oregon. It may have been transplanted from a nearby location, but I still like to think it would have made a splendid living Christmas tree; it certainly is the star of the front yard here, a young tree, gracing our entryway.

The Englemann spruce may outgrow the spot it is in, for they become tall and wide, lush in their soft foliage. Since conifers in general grow very fast when young and then slow to a snail's pace, or slower in maturity, it is not a present worry that it is planted so close to the house. It will probably outlast the house.

When I was a child during the Great Depression and World War II, we were too poor to afford a blue spruce, the elite of Christmas trees, and had instead, an ordinary Douglas fir, usually marked down on Christmas Eve, or even given away. Dad would make a stand out of boards for that scrappy little tree, set it up and we would decorate it with old fashioned bulbs and ornaments passed down through my mother's family.

There was always something under the tree for my brother and me; something my parents had sacrificed for. They would come home from Christmas Eve service, and stay up most of the night putting together whatever major "Santa" gifts there were. We children would try to be patient and quiet until they woke up in the morning, not daring to peek at what Santa had brought until we were called.

By New Year's Eve the tree would be dangerously dry. We would pack away the ornaments and haul the tree out to where Dad would cut it up for firewood. I secretly cried for that poor little tree, thinking that it had not had a very happy life and had been discarded in such a sad way. Even then I was sensitive to the spirit in plants of all shapes and types. Living things are always a wonderment to me.

When I had my own home, I chose a living tree whenever possible and after New Year's set it out gradually in a sheltered spot to get accustomed to winter. A few of these trees did not make it; usually the little florist-grown Scotch pines in tiny pots which were sometimes the only tree I could find room for.

Many of those trees were successfully transplanted. There is a Scotch pine in San Diego, a Douglas Fir in Palo Alto, a blue spruce in Lakeside, Arizona, a Noble Fir in Crowley Lake, in the Sierra where the snow piles up to 4-5 feet on the level. There is another blue spruce and a Scotch pine in Dyer, Nevada. I don't know if all these trees are still living; some of them may now be large and healthy, as are the two in this yard; messengers of Christmas Past. It is a legacy, the two spruce trees here in Plains.

When a tree is planted does it take on some of the life of the person who plants it? Does it give back life to those who care for it? I believe so, for a tree is truly planted for the future. What better memorial could there be?