" the nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale." ~ from 'The Nutcracker' by E.T.A Hoffman
Growing Christmas trees is a long game. Evergreen trees cut for the current season were planted 15-20 years earlier, and shaped each year to resemble the familiar and iconic Christmas trees we cherish. Karen Smaby was an old hat at this game. She lovingly planted and tended her Christmas tree fields near Grand Marais for over 30 years. She was slight and soft spoken with a subtle and dry sense of humor. I think few people actually knew she was the mastermind behind the trees they bought downtown at the gas station. The sign on the stand out front simply read 'Locally grown'.
Every year she called me on the phone to ask if I wanted to help her again this year. She waited with baited breath as I told her “yes of course, I would love to help you, It’s my favorite time of year.” It was true, I loved it. I was the only employee she ever had in 30 years of growing trees. And she only agreed to let someone help her the last seven years of her operation, and life.
Karen’s tree fields sat on a corner of road 12 miles east of Grand Marais known as Babineau corner. Named for the French Canadian man who first settled there, Mr. Babineau cleared the fields originally to grow potatoes. Supposedly he was something of an innovator. He built a wooden water tower along with wooden piping to catch water off his roof in order to have gravity fed water. This and other feats of rustic engineering to support his homesteading efforts made him a quirky legend amongst the back to the land neighborhood that migrated to these parts in the late 1960's and 70’s. Karen was one of those among them and clearly had reverence for this land, its history and forbearers.
Karen worked at various times throughout the year in the tree fields. She planted seedlings in May, pruned and sheared in late June and cut brush in July and August. In the fall, she walked her fields, carefully tying different colored flagging tape to the tops of her trees. The various colors indicated different grades of quality, and the final location; whether local market or wholesale. She always joked it was a very sophisticated system, downplaying how much time she had spent inspecting, sorting and selecting. It was obvious how much she loved those trees and her dedication to the work. She cut the ones she had selected for that year setting them on the ground next to the stump.
My job was to find and pull the cut trees out of the field, sort them by flagging color and piling them together. Over 4 fields and 3 acres I hunted for trees and hauled them out making piles by the driveway and main parking lot. I loved it because I didn’t have to be the boss. All I had to do was show up and work. It became a rhythm and a strategy. Which end of the field to start with, where to blaze the path across the snow, where to stage my piles. This path would become well worn as I tromped back and forth, moving dozens of trees, piling them into pyramids awaiting pickup or loading. We always worked in early - mid November, so the first batches could go out ahead of the Thanksgiving weekend. My clothes always ended up smelling like pitch and I usually had to shed layers for the exertion could be immense. One year, a freezing rain had come after a heavy snow, burying all the cut trees lying on the ground in a foot of heavy, wet, extra weight! Some years we were dragging trees across wet grass. Karen always worried about the weather and hoped for the best. She taught me to wear a double layer of wool mittens instead of gloves. Your hands stay a lot warmer and your mittens smell like Christmas for the rest of the winter. I loved this work, dragging trees across the snow, the repetition of it, and how after awhile you sorta got in deep with it. The piles, the trees, the early winter ponderings, the season behind you, the year ahead. And because in late November, I wasn’t quite ready to head indoors for the long winters’ rest. I told her many times how I loved it, but she didn’t believe me for some reason.
Karen knew all the ins and outs of the craft and I respected her knowledge and years of experience. She always made the same jokes, like “I’ve arranged for this light snowfall to look like a snow globe just for your workday today”. Or while bailing trees that the person pulling them through had just enough time to have a smoke in between…? She always cautioned me to take my time while dragging the trees out. To watch out for stumps and holes and take lots of breaks. And that this was the year she might start using her new electric chainsaw. But, then again, maybe she would save it. I knew she never had a sharp scissors for cutting the netting after each baled tree so I always brought my own. She was always so delighted when I pulled it out. She was thrifty yet particular. She had her systems, and her ways, and was a bit of a perfectionist with the trees. She always wore old boots and old gloves, and was very reluctant to upgrade her tiny, rear wheel drive, circa early 1990’s pickup to a 4 wheel drive truck. The upgrade would have served her well for the big icy hill she had to navigate, every trip to town to restock the trees at the gas station. Which deserves mention; she had perfected a loading system for hauling trees in the tiniest truck possible. She could fit seven good sized Christmas trees into the back of the 6' x 4’ truck bed. She did this by laying the first horizontally behind the cab window, and building a tight pyramid of six more parallel to the bed; making sure to interlock the branches. They were so tucked in together and actually fairly secure that she only hastily threw a thin rope over them and tied them down, just as a precaution.
This was rustic back-to-the-land enterprise at its finest. Common around here until only recently. Mr. Babineau would have approved. She was a remnant almost, of a bygone era. Folks who kept it really simple. Stuck to the knowledge base their craft, frugally maintaining the highest quality of end product. Nowadays, we need marketing and an online presence and a brand. I feel fortunate to have been a witness to the old ways and to be a bridge into the new one.
Karen would only sell the absolute best trees. And truthfully, they were perfect. And way too cheap. She told me that if I took over the business I could raise the prices. And that she had been meaning to, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
It didn’t work for my landscaping season to buy the tree farm. And I didn’t know she wanted to sell it because she was sick. She had been diagnosed with late stage pancreatic cancer and continued to work, hoping to sell. She kept her illness to herself, as a very private person. When I finally heard the news she was in hospice. She died just two months later.
Every November Karen’s legacy comes to the forefront. The trees she planted still go to markets elsewhere and you can still buy them downtown. And her spirit is still there in those fields. It’s a whisper, but I say hello anyway every time I drive by. I loved those seven years in the tree fields. Seven Novembers, in the company of Karen Smaby.
