Ron Tuthill: Christmas in the Wild

The wind was bitterly cold.  The rain had turned to ice pellets, making my face feel under attack from sharp, tiny nails.  My fingers and toes were already numb.  My gloves were soaked from the rain and were now freezing to my hands.

How much longer would it be?

Every way I turned the fresh scent of pine was reinforced with the prickly needles I felt on my face and sticky sap that was starting to cover my clothes and get into my hair.

What was I thinking?!  Why didn’t I listen to reason?  Damn tradition!

“Dad!” I heard through the wind.

Hope!  He’s around here somewhere – close from the sound of it.

My mind raced to earlier this morning. “Let’s wait until tomorrow,” she said.  The weather is terrible.”
She was right, of course.  Winter storm warnings covered the midwest.  Main highways were closed in a three-state area, and many people were already without power.

What was the rush?  This could wait.  Be sensible. If only –

“Dad!  Over here!”

He was to my right.  I just needed to get through the wall of trees that surrounded me.

“Dad! Hurry!”

I pushed my way through trees, branches scratching my face, needles pricking my eyes and ears. I can’t lose him, again.  Not when I’m this close.  I can’t!

“Alec!  I’m here!  Where are you?!”

The wind suddenly died for just a second. There was a stilled silence, then—

“I’m here Dad!  Next to the wreaths.  Mom found a nice tree.  She needs the checkbook.”