As the opening notes of the season's first storm began, with
a crescendo of torrential rains and fierce winds predicted by the weather
service, we climbed fearlessly into our motorized sleigh and headed north to
Sebastopol, steering our coursers for Grandma Buddy's Christmas Tree
Farm.
Knowing nothing more than what I had seen on Grandma's website, I felt that this was surely the place to find a tree, since it is used for photo shoots and has been on the covers of magazines. What better Christmas tree credentials than that? I packed my camera.
I was determined, after years of the dreaded tree lot syndrome, that an expedition to cut down our own tree would be a worthwhile experience, a new experience, an experience to remember. And it was.
Grandma's is authentically charming with its festive red and white barn made magical by thousands of lights, the sweet fragrance of natural greenery, logs popping and crackling in a wood stove, and the old fashioned train chugging around its tiny village.
The trees themselves were a miniature forest. Every one, of which there were many varieties, was alive and growing. All we had to do was saw a foot or two up the trunk and the tree would grow back. Off through the trees we ambled, assisted by a calico cat, with only an ear-twitch of mist falling over us.
Dividing the wood crosswise, was an artfully designed creek bed, spanned by wooden bridges. After building our own creek bed in our yard last summer, I was especially delighted to see this.
Back and forth we wandered until, at the very outermost edge of the farm, in the farthest possible corner, we came upon a splendid tree. Unlike all the others whose branches brushed the ground, this tree had grown from a three foot trunk, as if on a pedestal. High above the trunk, the tree was full and graceful and reached a good 14 feet in all. We cut it about four feet up and carried it back to the barn where it was bagged and tied to the roof of our car. The cord, threaded inside through the windows, was so taught we could pluck Jingle Bells on it. By the time we pulled out of the drive, the rain had begun falling hard.
Within a few blustery miles, we found ourselves driving through a heavily wooded and unfamiliar area. We were lost, but I quickly determined our direction to be north, since moss grows on the north side of trees. Michael found this more amusing than anything but soon placed us on the right path, around Occidental.
At this point - driving aimlessly in a raging storm with a Christmas tree tied to the roof - anyone with two brain cells to rub together would turn home. Not us. Instead, we drove straight for the ocean, to Bodega Bay, Spud Point. We really had no choice though, because that's where you get clam chowder. The best clam chowder in the world, bubbling and simmering in a giant kettle, right outside on the marina. Boats bring in the clams and into the pot they go. Truly, the best in the world. We grabbed two steaming bowls to go and traveled on.
Our next stop was Nick's Cove, where we parked the car smack on the water's edge. With waves crashing in front of us, we held snug and dry, slowly savoring thick rich spoonfuls of chowder. For dessert, a chocolate-covered macaroon, sweet and moist and big as a fist. With all our hungers satisfied, and finally ready to go home, the storm hit full gale.
We plowed homeward, working our way back along the ocean, shaking and lurching in a squall that surely aimed to blow us out to sea. But we made it home, safe and sound, with the tree still hanging on. 'Twas a miracle. The Spirits had done it all in one half of a day. A perfect day! A delightful day! Give that day a farthing! Give Grandma Buddy's and Spud Point Crab Company one too.
Knowing nothing more than what I had seen on Grandma's website, I felt that this was surely the place to find a tree, since it is used for photo shoots and has been on the covers of magazines. What better Christmas tree credentials than that? I packed my camera.
I was determined, after years of the dreaded tree lot syndrome, that an expedition to cut down our own tree would be a worthwhile experience, a new experience, an experience to remember. And it was.
Grandma's is authentically charming with its festive red and white barn made magical by thousands of lights, the sweet fragrance of natural greenery, logs popping and crackling in a wood stove, and the old fashioned train chugging around its tiny village.
The trees themselves were a miniature forest. Every one, of which there were many varieties, was alive and growing. All we had to do was saw a foot or two up the trunk and the tree would grow back. Off through the trees we ambled, assisted by a calico cat, with only an ear-twitch of mist falling over us.
Dividing the wood crosswise, was an artfully designed creek bed, spanned by wooden bridges. After building our own creek bed in our yard last summer, I was especially delighted to see this.
Back and forth we wandered until, at the very outermost edge of the farm, in the farthest possible corner, we came upon a splendid tree. Unlike all the others whose branches brushed the ground, this tree had grown from a three foot trunk, as if on a pedestal. High above the trunk, the tree was full and graceful and reached a good 14 feet in all. We cut it about four feet up and carried it back to the barn where it was bagged and tied to the roof of our car. The cord, threaded inside through the windows, was so taught we could pluck Jingle Bells on it. By the time we pulled out of the drive, the rain had begun falling hard.
Within a few blustery miles, we found ourselves driving through a heavily wooded and unfamiliar area. We were lost, but I quickly determined our direction to be north, since moss grows on the north side of trees. Michael found this more amusing than anything but soon placed us on the right path, around Occidental.
At this point - driving aimlessly in a raging storm with a Christmas tree tied to the roof - anyone with two brain cells to rub together would turn home. Not us. Instead, we drove straight for the ocean, to Bodega Bay, Spud Point. We really had no choice though, because that's where you get clam chowder. The best clam chowder in the world, bubbling and simmering in a giant kettle, right outside on the marina. Boats bring in the clams and into the pot they go. Truly, the best in the world. We grabbed two steaming bowls to go and traveled on.
Our next stop was Nick's Cove, where we parked the car smack on the water's edge. With waves crashing in front of us, we held snug and dry, slowly savoring thick rich spoonfuls of chowder. For dessert, a chocolate-covered macaroon, sweet and moist and big as a fist. With all our hungers satisfied, and finally ready to go home, the storm hit full gale.
We plowed homeward, working our way back along the ocean, shaking and lurching in a squall that surely aimed to blow us out to sea. But we made it home, safe and sound, with the tree still hanging on. 'Twas a miracle. The Spirits had done it all in one half of a day. A perfect day! A delightful day! Give that day a farthing! Give Grandma Buddy's and Spud Point Crab Company one too.
Wishing you the very happiest of holidays!
