On my family’s 80-acre Christmas tree farm in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom was a large swamp populated by northern white cedar trees. The swamp was at the base of Mount Monadnock, which rose sharply from the rolling fields hugging the Connecticut River. The cedar grove was to the west of our white farmhouse and big red barn, and during bright winter mornings, the sun set the snow-covered grove to glittering. By the afternoon, though, the swamp was in the shadow of the mountain, cooler but still offering protection from the sharp winds outside – and from our mother’s mercurial moods inside our much warmer home.
In this remote region where I grew up, every bit of natural resource had value. For our father, these woods offered an opportunity to earn extra money, beyond his salary as a supervisor at Ethan Allen Furniture Factory in Beecher Falls. He harvested the cedar trees – prized for their resistance to decay – to sell as fence posts. For my siblings and me, the cedar woods were both playground and refuge.
During the long winters, when the north winds swirled snow devils across our pastures, and the temperature lingered in the subzero realm, the cedar’s dense canopy protected us, as well as the wild animals and birds. Gusts of wind blasted down from the mountain shook the branches, showering us with icy snow crystals like fairy dust, and the trees swished around us like a giant crinoline skirt. Between pounding gusts, the thick, reddish trunks of cedars created a hushed, dark space, scented with the tree’s distinctive aroma.
We followed the narrow paths made by deer, their sharp cloven hooves punching through the snow. My brother, sisters, and I walked atop the snow, hard and crusty from numerous thaws and freezes, noting the tender branches nipped off by browsing deer. A colony of chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches chattered from within the branches. With careful, quiet steps and keen eyes, our travels through the woods eventually led to the trampled-down areas where the deer had bedded down the night before. Although I’ve since learned not to disturb deer wintering yards, back then to stand where these wild animals had slept only hours before felt like a gift.
While the ground was still frozen in early spring, Dad cut the cedar trees and hauled them to the barnyard with his old Farmall tractor. In late spring, with the wood still green and the sap fresh, my brother Danny and I peeled the bark off the cedar logs while my two sisters helped my mother with household chores. Danny started by prying off a small bit of bark with a spud, a tool with a 20-inch wooden handle and shovel-shaped metal tip fashioned by a local blacksmith from old car springs. Once he got a good bit free, I pulled on the bark, peeling it off in long strips like a banana. Afterward, we removed the sticky, glue-like pitch from our face and hands with kerosene and an old rag, leaving our skin hot and raw.
Dad cut the peeled logs into 6-foot lengths for fence posts. He used wedges and a sledgehammer to hand-split longer, thicker peeled logs for fancy rail fences. We helped him sharpen one end of each fence post into a spear-like point, so that the post could more easily be pounded into the ground. Dad propped a log on top of the sawhorse, and Danny sat on the other end of the log. Dad nodded, the surest mode of communication given the noise of the chainsaw, and Danny gave the post a quarter turn for each swipe of Dad’s chainsaw. I helped carry the posts to various piles according to their sizes. The posts piled up throughout the summer months. The smaller, thinner ones with the bark left on them (50 cents) would be used to support electric wire fencing; the thicker ones (75 cents) for barbed wire; the peeled logs ($1.25) for rustic rails.
Growing and selling Christmas trees was a year-round project. In summer, Dad and Danny trimmed the wild balsam fir trees so they would grow into perfect conical shapes. In the fall, they tagged and cut them down. Our entire family helped drag out the firs. Then, Dad tied each one by hand into a compact bundle with bailing twine to be trucked away and sold to families living “down below” in towns and cities far from our farm and unaware of the work involved.
The cedars that surrounded my family provided recreation, sustenance, and identity. My memory of that time has given me a deep appreciation of everyday wooden items, and how, in my home, I still live surrounded by forests. Wood floors, window frames, cupboards, tables, chairs, bowls, jewelry boxes – each holds within it the work and rewards of the people who harvested and shaped the wood.