The perfect Christmas tree

There’s news this week that an electric eel named Wattson is being used to help light up a Christmas tree at the Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga.

This would be wildly exciting news to my dad. He was a starry-eyed Christmas tree connoisseur, and if alive today our living room would have an aquarium filled with electric eels illuminating our Christmas tree.

Searching for and decorating the absolute perfect Christmas tree was an obsession in our house.

The annual Christmas tree project began two weeks before Dec. 25. Dad would start it off by honing the axe. Artificial trees barely existed back then and considering one, instead of a live trophy cut and dragged from the woods, would be sacrilegious.

And, there was no chainsaw. No saw of any kind. Only a hand axe could be used in the devout work of whacking down the perfect Christmas tree.

On an appointed morning, usually during a storm of the century, we would trek into the snowy woods to begin the hunt for the perfect tree.

After trudging for an hour through the deepest part of the woods we would end up back at the forest edge where we began.

“That’s the one!” my father would declare, eyeing a tall balsam that was the first tree we had passed when entering the woods an hour earlier. “It’s perfect.”

The perfect tree always was balsam and always a giant, 20 to 30 feet tall. Balsam held their needles much better than spruce, my father said, and the tallest trees had the best crowns.

The harvesting began with my father cutting away lower branches to make room to swing the axe into the tree’s smooth trunk. The thunking of the axe resounded through the forest as wood chips floated in the air like oversize pieces of confetti.

This was strenuous work and after a minute or two my father’s rimless glasses would fog, making it difficult for him to see the angle of the cut, which determined where the tree would fall.

My father told us precisely where the tree would fall but anyone betting on the accuracy of his precision was sure to lose their money. Or consciousness, if you could not get out of the way quickly.

We children witnessing the cutting were frozen with apprehension as the axe did its work. The first crack signalling that the tree was falling sent us scrambling through the snow, desperately trying to guess where the tree would land.

When the tree was down, and all bodies counted to ensure no one was pinned beneath it, the crown would be measured for living room height and the axe would be put to work again.

There was no enlightened environmental thinking back then. We were surrounded by tens of thousands of trees and no one thought twice about cutting a large healthy specimen and taking just its crown for Christmas.

After being dragged home the tree was anchored in a pail of hard-packed sand and set in a corner of the living room.

Strings of ancient lights that could never pass an electrical inspection were placed strategically on the branches. Then coloured balls were hung on branch tips where they would catch and reflect the red, blue, green and yellow lights.

Then came that final, and most important, decorating step – adding the tinsel.

Tinsel was the real deal back then, long strips of tin or lead foil that were malleable and could be bent around a branch to stay firmly in place. Not like today’s flimsy silvery strips that fly off at a sneeze.

Tinseling the tree was an art performed only by father. He did, however, instruct us in the do’s and don’ts of tinsel hanging so we could participate as we got older. Sort of an apprenticeship in tinsel hanging.

When every branch was fully draped with tinsel all our family would gather around the tree, eyes wide with wonder. No one said a word as the glow from the tree’s colourful lights danced happily off the decorative balls, sparkling tinsel and our awe-filled faces.

No words were needed because no one needed to be told that we were viewing the perfect Christmas tree.   

#

Playing at centre ice

The best position in hockey surely is the centre.

The centre player not only needs to be a fast skater, but a fast thinker capable of quickly grasping and assimilating the thinking of both left and right wingers.

Hockey centres often are team leaders. Almost half of the 31 National Hockey League teams have captains that are centres, a high proportion considering each team carries only four centres against eight wingers and six defence.

Outside of hockey, centre has become an almost forgotten position. Too few of us consider the centre these days, preferring to lock ourselves into the right or the left wings. And too often, tight against the boards on the very extreme sides of those wings.

It wasn’t always that way. Politicians, and the folks that put them into power, used to listen to the views of the other wings, consider them and sometimes work them into their own positions. That’s the way things got done – bipartisan thinking building consensus to do the things needed.

The concept of left and right wings in politics is relatively new. The terms were coined during the French Revolution of 1789. Since then they have morphed into the nightmarish chaos we now see in the United States, and to a lesser extent in Canada.

In recent times the wings have taken on distinct colours. Red, the colour of Communists, social democrats and generally liberal thinkers in many countries, now is associated with the right-wing Republicans in the U.S.  Blue is the colour of the left and so we have red states and blue states.

It’s the opposite in Canada where Liberal-leaning areas are red and Conservative areas are blue.

Sadly absent in my opinion is white, the colour of centre ice before the logos are painted on.  

Why people and their politicians have moved from centre ice thinking off to the wings is difficult to explain. Perhaps they fear being labelled wishy-washy for sitting in the middle considering all sides of a position or argument. Or maybe it is because solid white, certainly in the case of a flag, is the symbol of giving up and we don’t want to be seen as weak.

Whatever, no one should assume that taking a position at centre, thoughtfully weighing facts and considering all sides of an issue, should be taken as a synonym for weakness.

White is a positive colour associated with illumination, understanding and clearing away clutter. It also is a colour known to aid mental clarity.

Mental clarity certainly is needed in these raucous and confused times. It simply is not good enough to yap something unintelligent on a complicated issue presented by a person you do not like.

For example, I am no fan of Premier Doug Ford’s style. But I understand his government’s spending cuts.

Ontario simply cannot afford to go on spending the way it has. The provincial debt is projected to hit $325 billion for the 2019-2020 fiscal year, depending on whose figures you choose to believe.

Whatever the figure, we all know the provincial debt is far too large. If we don’t get it under control, we all are going to suffer greatly in the future.

So, we can criticize Ford but cuts are necessary. Where he is making them is another matter – a question that should be open to calm and rational debate.

Government program cuts always hurt someone. No one wants cuts where it will affect them. That’s why someone needs to initiate some centre ice discussions to build a consensus on how to cut back with the least impact on fewest people, and the most vulnerable.

Similarly, I am not a fan of Justin Trudeau, particularly his judgment. However, I understand his dilemma of allowing more pipelines that will help worsen global warming, or not allowing them and risking more western uprising and possible separation.

There are many such problems that will not be solved with only wild right- or left-wing play. We voters need to get our sticks on the ice and spend more time at the thoughtful centre.

You score more goals by keeping your head up and considering all the play than by skating about wildly, shouting polarized and radical opinions.

#

The lessons of hunting

Three brittle jeers break the blessed stillness of the woods.

I am found out.

I was enjoying the stillness, feeling totally alone and unnoticed. Observing, presumably without being observed. Now I am the centre of attention.

It is a blue jay, of course, that has sounded the alarm, warning everything with ears that I am slinking through their territory. I can’t see it, but it hears and sees me from some hidden perch.

I was hoping to spot some game. The day certainly is right. A bold blue sky with an abundance of late autumn sunshine illuminating the darkest corners of these woods.

The jay’s screaming has lessened my chances of spotting anything. I have a feeling that there is not much to spot anyway. There are few tracks and little other fresh sign.

The winter-like weather of early November seems to have alerted birds and animals to start moving to winter quarters. The bears likely have gone into hibernation; the deer are moving off to winter yarding areas where they have a better chance of avoiding starvation.

The official start of winter is three weeks away, but the signs of it bearing down are everywhere.

Bare-branch oaks and maples surrounding me are shivering. It’s not really that cold so I assume they are shivering in anticipation of what is to come.

From the ridge where I am standing, I see the lake below. It is frothing and spitting to protest the lashing it is taking from the wintery north wind. Soon the lake will be calmed and stiffened by relentless overnight freezing temperatures.

The freezing and the heavy-duty storms that accompany it will lock in winter for the coming five or six months.

I think about how lucky I am to be enjoying these woods before the big snows close them off.

Then it hits me: this is the first time I can remember being in the autumn woods unarmed. No shotgun for partridge, no rifle or bow for deer, moose or bear. In fact, I don’t even have a hunting licence, for the first time that I can remember.

I have decided not to hunt this year.

Some folks say age reduces the urge to hunt, but I still have that urge and still know the excitement of hunting.  

I guess I am hunting during this walk in the woods. I hope to see a deer running down the ravine that leads to the lake. Or, hear the rush of a partridge flushing from beneath an evergreen. I’m just not carrying a weapon.

I have decided not to hunt this year because I see game numbers steadily decreasing in the woods that I travel. I have seen only one partridge this year, and if I saw it again while carrying my shotgun, I could not in good conscience shoot it.

The same applies to deer, although their numbers fluctuate from year to year and location to location. They could be abundant next year or the year after.

Not so the partridge. Where I wander the flocks no longer exist. The decline is a trend that I, and other hunters, have seen develop over the past 20 years.

My decision not to take any game this year is strictly personal. In no way do I advocate it as a decision to be followed by others.

Hunting is a valuable part of Canadian culture. It provides enjoyment and food for many people and is an effective management tool in areas where game management is needed.

Also, the licensing of hunting provides governments with money, which hopefully is used to better manage wildlife resources and ensure that hunting can continue for the many thousands who enjoy it.

None of my favourable thoughts on hunting apply to one aspect of the sport – trophy hunting. Killing any animal specifically to pose with its corpse, or simply to wall mount its head or horns, is not hunting. It is killing to feed one’s ego.

Hunting is about learning to become part of nature. That involves understanding that everything in nature – including you – is equal.

Parts of nature kill other parts. They do it out of need.

Humans kill animals, plants, fish and insects.  When they do, there should be some form of need, and a great deal of respect.