Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

A Million Memories in the Christmas Tree Graveyard

By Bob Wire, 1-12-09

	Sayonara, sucker. See you on my garden in June.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions is the disposing of the tree. The symbolism is heavy, and it allows me to slam the door on another Christmas and with it, another year. I take great pleasure in dumping it onto the huge pile of trees in the Splash Montana parking lot, where they await chipping and shredding at the hands of Eko Compost, the Missoula outfit that recycles thousands of the city’s tree carcasses each spring.

In other towns across the country the same scene plays out year after year: de-ornamented trees lie in the gutters of neighborhoods, kicked out of the house like an alcoholic uncle who’s been caught stealing money from the kids’ piggy banks. But here in Missoula, we have the opportunity to gaze upon a thousand other discarded trees, which represent a thousand other families, a thousand other Christmases.

That’s why I love this particular ritual. Before I add our dried-out specimen to the pile, I like to stand and just soak it in—all the Christmas memories and excitement that revolved around each of these trees for a couple of weeks. Some still have their wooden stands nailed to the bottom, some are still festooned with mylar tinsel. A couple even have strings of lights still entwined in their branches. In a way, it’s a shocking scene: all these trees that were once lovingly hand-decorated with heirloom ornaments and carefully arranged strings of lights or popcorn, then unceremoniously stripped naked and thrown carelessly onto the scrap heap, like Chuck Connors in “Branded.”

During last week’s windy snow storms, a denuded Christmas tree blew into our driveway from somewhere up the street, and it sat there for most of the day, forlorn, abandoned. It was a fine tree, thick with needles and nicely shaped. I’m sure it was a lovely centerpiece for someone’s Christmas morning. But now it lay on its side on our icy driveway, shifting back and forth in the bitter cold wind, long forgotten by the family that had tossed it out with the garbage. I went outside the next morning to retrieve it so I could recycle it with ours, but it was gone, like an evergreen spectre that had moved to a deeper perdition.

So when the time came, we stripped our own tree and I carried it outside and secured it to the roof of the 4Runner. The tree was so scrawny, a couple of twist-ties was all I needed. Hell, I probably could have cut it up with scissors and put it into the kitchen garbage. But then I would have been cheated out of my annual trip to the Christmas Tree Mass Grave. So Rusty and I took the tree to the Splash Montana parking lot, and sure enough, a six-foot tall pile of trees stretched for nearly a city block. All shapes, sizes, species and styles were heaped on the pile, and Rusty and I stood silently for a few moments, imagining how each of these trees was the central focal point of thousands of hopes and dreams during Christmas. How many had fallen over, to be captured on tape and submitted to America’s Funniest Videos? How many had been peed on by the dog? Which ones had caught fire? Which ones brought a nest of spiders into the house? Every tree had a story, and now every tree was history.

With a mighty heave (really, just a flick of the wrist), I tossed the Wire 2008 Christmas tree onto the pile. “Thanks, tree,” I said. “That was a good Christmas.” Rusty gave me a high five, and we climbed into the truck and drove off, leaving another expensive, stressful, yet fulfilling holiday season in the rear view mirror.

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