First Christmas Tree Hunt With Dad

He was dressed for this annual task he would never forget.

John Gagnon

I was 12 when I first helped my dad get our Christmas tree, which proved to be like a fairy tale long remembered. “I'll need a hand today,” Dad said one morning. I was eager. We gathered a hatchet, a bow saw, a length of rope, and two pairs of snowshoes from the small barn in the backyard. The snowshoes, crafted with ash wood frames, ribbons of varnished cowhide for the meshes, and leather foot bindings, were made by my dad's fishing and hunting partner, who was really handy at making stuff. Then, donned in swampers (boots), choppers (mittens), and tuques (caps)—typical northern Michigan winter attire—we loaded up Dad's jalopy, a ‘49 Chevy that he had bought for 50 bucks at the junkyard in the next gully. He always had…

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Good Old Days (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2024

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