Long before the ubiquity of cell phones, the internet or artificial trees, the tradition of finding a live Christmas tree was an indispensable part of the season. In the rolling hills surrounding our family farm — spanning Ancram and Ancramdale — the hunt for a Christmas tree was a ritual, albeit one that often resulted in a scraggly white pine that could rival Charlie Brown’s.
Back in the 1940s through the 1960s, we scouted our trees well in advance of the holiday — often during November’s deer hunting season. Neighbors didn’t mind if you wandered onto their land in search of a tree. The fences, after all, were there to keep dairy cows in, not people out. A favorite spot of ours was a hillside east of Long Pond (known as just “Pond” in those days; “Lake” came later, likely to boost real estate appeal) on the John Vosburgh farm. The hill was dotted with fast-growing white pines.
Once the prize was found, it was dragged down to what is now Wiltsie Bridge Road and loaded into the back of our trusty 1950 Ford pickup for the short trip back to Chimney Hill Farm. The tree would be erected in its stand and secured in a corner of the living room. Tying it to both walls was essential — old farmhouses often had sagging floors, and our tree’s balance needed all the help it could get. But another threat loomed: our mischievous farm pets, particularly our pet raccoon.
One Christmas in the late 1950s, our raccoon developed a fascination with the cellophane-wrapped candy canes hung on the lower branches. Using his nimble paws, he quickly unwrapped his purloined presents. True to his nature, he attempted to douse, or “wash” them in the water reservoir at the base of the tree. What followed was a scene both comical and tragic.
The candy canes were of the chiffon variety — low-density, lightweight and highly dissolvable. As soon as they touched the water, they melted into sugary nothingness. Perplexed and increasingly irate, our raccoon sat back on his haunches, holding up his empty paws as if questioning the universe. His little chittering noises expressed utter dismay — a melodrama that has stayed vividly in my memory.
These simple moments define the holidays of my childhood: the shared venture into the woods, the camaraderie of neighbors, the quirks of old farmhouses and the antics of animals that blurred the line between pets and family. The Christmas tree wasn’t just a decoration — it was a repository for stories, each year adding another layer to the cherished lore of the place I called home.
Chronicles is the New Pine Plains Herald’s memoir series, chronicling life in and around Pine Plains, Ancram, Gallatin, Milan and Stanford. The Herald welcomes submissions from readers that highlight memories and lived experiences from all people of all backgrounds. Send your story to editor@newpineplainsherald.org.
