CHAPTER ONE WEST
Even at such an early hour, the tree farm bustles with photographers setting up their shoots: checking the lighting based on the prediction of where the sun will be when, dragging their supplies from cars and vans parked haphazardly in the parking lot.
Today’s weather is literally picture perfect with a high of fifty-five degrees, the sun shining, and not a cloud in the sky.
I smile to myself as I watch Marisa, my oldest and closest friend of the female persuasion, lug her sled onto the far lot of the northern side of the farm.
She claims the same spot every Saturday; on Sundays, she chooses a spot on the opposite side.
After five years of “working” with her, I don’t question her strategy; I simply watch her make magic.
Every session starts with uncooperative kids and disgruntled parents, yet with her charm, they always end with hugs and smiles, and if she’s lucky, happy tears from the moms. No matter how “horrible” she thinks the day goes, she loves her job, and I couldn’t be happier to provide her with the perfect backdrop and setting for Christmas pictures.
Just one of the many perks of owning Murrtham’s Tree Farm.
I give a fleeting wave to the other four photographers who have chartered space today.
All but one looks familiar, but the newbie doesn’t surprise me.
My sister, Everly, deals directly with the photographers, scheduling the times and dates in late October and early November before the farm opens for the tree season.
In the five years we’ve opened our farm to photographers and their clients, we’ve only had to ask two not to return.
After the selling of actual Christmas trees, it’s the farm’s biggest moneymaker.
The idea originated with a casual conversation between Marisa, Everly, and me—a gripe of Marisa’s about wanting to offer outdoor space to her clients for Christmas pictures but not having a location to do so.
Everly was home from college for the weekend with fresh eyes on how to attract more people to our farm.
Something about a “tot, truck and a tree” ignited a spark in their minds, and the idea was born.
It gave both of them a new lease on their jobs, something I’ve supported with gusto since that first night.
In five years, it’s only gotten bigger and more popular.
We don’t even advertise; word of mouth is the best kind of marketing we don’t have to pay for.
I hop in the UTV to make my daily trek around the farm, checking to make sure things are in tip-top shape.
It’s not just for the photo sessions; maintaining the farm is a yearly job, one I take seriously.
Have been since my father turned over the daily operations to me ten years ago.
I may have only been eighteen at the time, but I grew up on the farm, working day in and day out with my father, learning how to cultivate the land, keep the trees alive, and how to run the business side of it.
I’ve since handed that part over to my brother, Gavin and his wife, financial wizards that they are.
Between the three Murrtham siblings, plus Audrey, the farm is profitable every year, usually more so than the previous year.
Even though he’s “retired,” Dad still has a hand in the farm, allowing us kids to run it the way we see fit.
If he has a differing opinion, he’s not shy to voice it, but ultimately, we make all the decisions among the four of us.
He helps out with the planting of the new crop every year and also tends to the trees many days, but his desired job during the season entails running the gift shop and mingling with the families, right alongside my mother.
Every Saturday and Sunday, and the occasional Friday night, for two weeks in November and three in December, the holiday shop is their domain.
Dad gets up early to build a fire and Mom bakes homemade treats and fixes hot cocoa for the customers, customers who return year after year to cut down their Christmas tree.
I don’t linger too long on my drive; Dad was out in the fields yesterday, essentially making my job for the day that much easier. Out of habit, I drive around visually scanning all fifty acres of trees from my vehicle.
As much as our customers make it a yearly tradition to come to the farm to find a tree and take part in activities, ever since I was a little boy, it’s been my job to scour the fields each year for the perfect tree for our parents’ house.
You’d think it would be easy; we own an entire farm of them for gosh sake.
But I take the job seriously, making sure to find the best tree each year to display our family’s ornaments, our history essentially.
I start my search in early September, right after my birthday, every year hoping it won’t take as long as the previous years.
Newsflash: it gets more difficult every year, especially now that I have to find three trees: one for my parents’ house, one for my house, and one for Gavin and Audrey.
Fortunately, Everly still lives with my parents so I’m off the hook for hers. For now at least.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the task.
I may outwardly complain, but my insides are giddy with excitement of searching and searching for the perfect trees.
Sure, there’s added pressure this year because in less than three weeks, Gavin and Audrey are expanding our family by one.
The first grandchild. A niece or nephew for me and Everly.
Gavin and Audrey are over the moon excited; me, not so much as I have zero experience with babies and could the timing be any worse?
I may have mentioned that when Audrey sprung the news on us months ago.
I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest moment, but couldn’t they have at least had the decency to wait until AFTER the Christmas season was over?
I earned myself two days of radio silence from all members of my family that day.
At least no one can accuse me of not taking my job seriously.
It was Everly who finally broke the silence, showing up at my door with homemade brownies.
I dropped off the ingredients to my parents’ front porch as a peace offering, knowing I’d have to grovel to the rest of my family, mostly to Gavin and Audrey.
Since she came barreling into our lives, Everly’s always been the peacekeeper, making me see the error in my ways, making sure I owned up to my wrongdoings, always with a fresh batch of brownies.
She learned at a young age the way to my heart was through my stomach, and there’s almost nothing in this world that can’t be solved by a batch of her “magic” brownies, even when I’m at my most stubborn.
Fortunately for everyone involved, I don’t habitually hold grudges nor does my stubborn side often make an appearance.
I have two of the three trees narrowed down, but the one for Gavin and Audrey is proving to be a thorn in my side.
Hours of my life I’ve wasted walking up and down the rows but nothing has called out to me yet.
The countdown is on. We officially open for business in two weeks, and our trees are always the first ones cut every year, come hell or high water.
This year, there’s the added pressure of getting them cut down, set up and decorated all before baby Murrtham makes his or her debut.
I’ve given him/her strict orders not to enter the world until after Thanksgiving.
Knowing my brother’s child, he/she will arrive on the due date, which is thankfully after Thanksgiving.
I make my way back to the entrance of the farm, as SUVs and family vans start to invade the parking area. I try to avoid the bulk of the sessions as much as I can, retreating to the sanctuary of my log cabin at the back of our property for the majority of the day.
A car door slamming grabs my attention. It’s not usual for the parents to be peeved before the sessions begin.
As much as I try to avoid them, over the course of the last five years, I’ve spent my fair share of time in the fields, observing the way kids behave for “just one more picture,” the way parents bribe the kids with toys and candy for “just one more smile.” When your best friend grows up with a camera attached to her hip, you learn a thing or two about photography, as well as pose for a fair amount of pictures.
Both clothed and unclothed. My love of craft beer stems from Marisa’s “payments” over the years.
The slammed door belongs to a black SUV, the pricey Porsche Cayenne to be exact.
A frazzled woman stands at the trunk, struggling to open the tailgate, muttering things under her breath.
She fights with the handle, the door not budging in the slightest. Rooted to my spot, I watch her.
She tries with her left hand, then her right, then applying both hands to will the door open.
Then her voice carries over to me: “Martin, open the fucking trunk.” She waits about five seconds before making another attempt at opening the door. Still no luck.
She’s still muttering, something about an asshole, leaving the baby with him for a few hours, but it’s the comment about the shitty diaper that has me shuddering.
Her scowl deepens on her face, and it takes me about thirty more seconds to decide I should help her out.
Mostly so the kids in the parking lot don’t get too many more earfuls of her swears.
I make my way over, but before I can get to her car, the trunk door starts lifting automatically.
It catches her off guard, knocking her down as it slowly ascends upward.
Because she wasn’t expecting it to open, she tumbles backward, losing her footing on the uneven ground, falling on her ass.
Her voice gets louder; I’m not sure if it’s because she’s yelling louder or because I’m that much closer to her.