Refuge of the harvest: December 2007

We had a large field behind our house when I was growing up . My father and his twin brother planted Christmas trees with the idea it might make them some extra holiday change. The idea was lucrative. They planted blue spruce and scotch pine and the process was that the people could arrive early in December, walk around the field and pick out a Christmas tree they liked. We had cotton strips of fabric (cut out of old bed sheets) and people could write their name on them with a felt marker provided by our establishment. When it came time to get their tree they would arrive and we would provide bow saws to cut down the tree and drag it to their car if they wanted the Norman Rockwell image. If they didn't, me or my brother would cut it down and drag it to their car and tie it down. It worked well. .my brother and I got some nice tips and dad, once he was into his cups would slip us some serious cash. We had one guy who (mistakenly, I think) told his kids that Santa brings the tree and decorations. This poor guy would come up and tag a tree in mid December and Christmas eve night , after his kids were in bed, he would be out there with a flashlight cutting down his tree. We would be inside eating Christmas eve dinner and watching his flashlight move around in our field.

My father has a litmus paper face, with that I mean the redder it got the closer to the eruption. this women came in one year and picked and cut the tree herself and dragged it out of the field. when she got it to my father the dialog proceeded like this.

Lady: "does this tree have bugs in it?"
My father: "No."
Lady: "are you sure they're no bugs in it?"
My Father: "yes."
Lady "How can you be sure?"
My Father: Well, its mid December and its 15 degrees, they're aren't any bugs.
Lady: yes, well the branches are a little bare in this area.
My father': did you look at it before you cut it?
Lady: I think it might have bugs.
My father:No it doesn't have bugs.
Litmus paper warning: reaction about to happen.
Lady:I don't like the bare area.
My father: Ok, lady I'm not selling you this tree.
Lady: well, let me pick out another.
My father: I'm not going to sell you any tree.
Lady: Well, I . .
My father: MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS AND GET THE FUCK OFF MY PROPERTY!

I was standing there behind them and watched the appalled lady grapple for her car and exit with haste.
My father took the cut tree and stormed past me. Now, I was about 15 years old. I knew the key to the litmus paper face.
The process dictated that nothing be said at that time, unless you wanted to subject yourself to collateral damage.
I didn't say anything.
That night at dinner we were all sitting around the table. My father had settled down and I ventured forth.
Now, my dad was a construction worker. I grew up with the "fuck" word. I learned it as an adjective,noun and verb
"the fucking fucker is fucked" so the following was accepted.

Me: soooo dad, "Merry Fucking Christmas and get the fuck off my property" ???
Dad: What?
Me:That's what you said to that lady, "Merry Fucking Christmas and get the fuck off my property."
Dad: "oooooh no I didn't say that."
Me: "I was standing right there and yea you did."
Dad: "Noooo, I didn't."

I looked around to my sister, brother and mother, they all gave me a look like they had no problem at all
with my story. It has become a Christmas mantra for our family. I begged my mother to print it on our Christmas
cards the next year with a picture of my father, but she refused . Come on mom, most of our friend would have got it.