“Givers… that’s what we are,” Paul declared, just as emotionless.
After another couple of minutes of plowing through the snow, the brothers stopped and gestured. In a small clearing, amidst the fifty-foot and frequently scraggly long-needle pines, was a twenty-foot short-needle pine that was full, beautifully shaped, and seemed to have Christmas written all over it.
“Whatdoya think?” Saul asked.
“It’s perfect,” Peter agreed.
“Absolutely!” Goldie voted. “Seems a shame to cut such a beautiful thing down, though.”
“Well, it’s only beautiful if people can see it,” Peter reminded. “Besides, it gets three lives. It’s been growing up here in the woods for years, providing a home for the birds. Soon, it’ll be the centerpiece of the town’s holiday decorations. Then later, it’ll be free firewood for a lot of families. So, in a very real way, it’ll serve several purposes.”
“And we’ll plant some seedlings here come spring,” Paul promised. “For every one tree we cut down, we plant three.”
“Cool,” Goldie smiled, admiring its perfect shape. “But, how are just the four of us gonna get that thing hauled through the woods and loaded onto the truck? The truck isn’t long enough to hold it.”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that,” Paul said. “My cousins Barry, Larry, and Harry are comin’ in on horseback.” He looked at the sun. “They’ll be here in about a half hour. They’ll have ropes so we can pull the tree back to the road, then all of us together will lift it right onto the truck, prop the top over the cab, and we’ll hitch the bottom securely to the bed.”
“This isn’t their first tree wrangle,” Peter leaned into Goldie.
“No. No, I guess it sure isn’t,” she said, impressed.
“Let me get a picture of you and the boys in front of the tree before they cut,” Peter suggested.
The McCaw brothers and Goldie walked forward toward the tree, then turned and faced Peter with Goldie in the middle. Peter stayed back several feet to get the entire tree in frame, and everyone put their arms around one another’s waist. The McCaw brothers didn’t change their expressions, but Goldie smiled widely for the camera. After a few seconds, she said:
“Hey, Saul?”
“Yeah?”
“Move your left hand, or you’ll never be able to use it again.”
Eight
EVASIVE MEANINGS
Peter, Goldie, and the McCaw brothers spent the next couple of hours cutting down the town’s Christmas tree, and hauling it back to the road via ropes and horses, courtesy of the McCaws’ cousins Barry, Larry, and Harry. The seven of them carefully lifted and rolled the tree onto the McCaws’ flatbed Chevy with the help of the horses. The beautiful scenery eventually morphed into cold, hard work for Goldie, but she thoroughly enjoyed it. By a little after 1:00 p.m., the tree was coming down River Street towards the post office, where a volunteer crew was quickly assembled to set it in place, which they had all done before. Sparkledove didn’t have a city park per se, but the post office was set back from the street with a fifty-by-twenty-foot brick-laid courtyard in front of it. Using ropes and long, retractable poles with V-shaped ends, the tree was pushed to an upright position, then lifted into a large tree stand made of lumber waiting in a corner of the courtyard. Next, the base was secured with wooden wedges while the legs of the stand were weighed down with sandbags.
When everything was secure and in place, the McCaw brothers tipped their earflap caps to the local helpers, then returned to their home in the high country. Peter asked Goldie if she wanted to go to Clancy’s Bar & Grill for an Elk Burger and a beer, and after a long morning of such physical work, she was more than ready.
By 2:25, Peter and Goldie were coming out of Clancy’s when something disturbing caught her eye. She saw Peter’s father, Charles, talking to a woman in her mid-to-late thirties outside the Sparkledove City Hall. The woman was distressed, crying, and Charles was gesturing calmly with his arms, apparently trying to explain something. Goldie didn’t know the woman’s name, but she recognized her from the potluck Thanksgiving dinner at St. Mark’s.
“What’s goin’ on?” she asked Peter, pausing and watching.
“That’s Martha Eggleston,” Peter replied. “Sad story there. She was married to a man named Bucky. Nice guy. He was a civil engineer and commuted to and from Denver. But a couple of months ago, he was driving home late one night and went off the road. Fell asleep, I heard. Unfortunately, he was killed. Everybody in town was pretty stunned by it.”
“She’s still cryin’ for her husband?” Goldie asked.
“My guess is she’s crying because she’s about to lose her home,” Peter explained. “She didn’t work, and they’ve got an expensive place over on Falcon Drive just a few blocks that way,” he pointed. “Scuttlebutt is she can’t afford it anymore, and the bank may foreclose. My father’s probably trying to list it for her. He owns the realty company in town.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But homes are never worth what owners think they are,” he added. “And with the war, there isn’t a lot of movement in the market.”
“Geez, that really sucks,” Goldie observed. “To lose your partner and your home one right after the other. Believe me, I know.”
“Sucks,” he repeated, slightly amused. “I’ve never heard a girl talk exactly like you before. But, you’re right,” he quickly agreed. “What Martha’s going through right now is terrible. Sucks.”
Not long after, Goldie returned to her hotel, and Peter returned to his office and the business of putting together the weekly newspaper. He didn’t spend a lot of ink on the war news unless it was a major development because he figured people could get that from the Denver paper and the radio. He concentrated instead on local stories and interesting tidbits for the tourist traffic that would steadily increase between now and Christmas.
