December 2005, Catskill Mountains, New York

By Emily C. Ryan

Great Grandpa Ryan would be proud of my dad. Great grandpa would show up on special Sundays when my dad was a kid with food and treats and great grandma. Most importantly, though, great grandpa would come with a full tank of gas in his huge boat of a car. He would take my dad for long rides to nowhere in particular, and they would sit talking, or not talking, completely comfortable as the road stretched out before them.

And so, one gray Sunday, my mom and I weren’t surprised when dad asked if we would like to go for a ride. Mostly in jest, and for the sake of tradition, my mother and I smiled at each other, rolling our eyes, very well aware of the implications in the word “ride.”

Going for a ride with my dad meant exploring places we had never seen before. It meant taking “the scenic route” or “the long way back.” It meant the brief and exciting feeling of being completely lost, and the equally exciting realization that we were on a road we had known all along.

We put on sweaters and warm socks. It wasn’t full fledged winter yet, but grayish white curls remaining from the first snow lined the roadways. The occasional flurry floated down from the gray clouds without direction or urgency.

We loved being cozy in the car, and brought blankets and warm tea, and mittens and hats in case of a stop to enjoy the outdoors. We filed into the car, which was already warm and waiting for us. I handed a tape of Christmas jazz music to my mom in the front seat. It was a bit early in the season, but not so much that she wouldn’t sing along with me.

My dad doesn’t talk much while he’s driving. My mom usually falls asleep after about an hour, and my dad and I sit in the relative quiet, unwilling to break our concentration on the world unfolding around us. Occasionally, we catch each other’s eyes in the review mirror. I like for him to know that I’m not asleep too.

Somewhere in upstate New York, after about an hour and a half of driving, there, enveloped by rolling hills and lackadaisical snow flakes, was the most amazing Christmas tree farm. While most of the world had begun its slow but steady decline into a dull winter wardrobe, the grass and trees of the farm were still vibrantly green.

Without speaking, dad pulled over. From the road we could see families walking amidst the trees with old fashioned saws and sleds. The search for the best tree was both easy and extremely difficult. Each one was pruned and shaped so that the thoughts of lights and irreplaceable ornaments placed on the boughs brought out the twinkle in everyone’s eye.

My mom awoke as the car came to a stop. Dad asked what she thought about taking a look. My mom looked out the window sleepily and said that it would be nice to walk around.

We stepped out of the car and onto the soft ground. It smelled of pine and wet, cold earth. A white and brown spotted hound ran around disinterested in all the people. He had a bell around his neck that got louder and softer as he moved. The owner of the farm walked out of a shed that was about the size of a refrigerator. A chimney smoked emitting smells and warmth from the inside. With rosy cheeks and a smile he greeted us, told us to feel free to explore. There was a lot of land, and a creek bed over the hill to our right. He told us it was beautiful, so we went to see.

Our breath preceded us in three white clouds as we walked up the hill. The creek bed was crossed by a wooden bridge that connected the top of our hill to another gradually sloping rise. From above, the water danced over the sharp rocks that seemed determined to interrupt the flow. The silence of expanse encompassed us, making the sound of the brook, the bell of the dog, and the voices of those around us muffled and simultaneously intense.

We stood motionless on the bridge. For some moments, we were anchored to the earth, to the cold, to the farm, just like three perfectly pruned Christmas trees.

After about 10 minutes Dad asked if we were ready to go. Mom and I looked at each other, smiled, and told him we were enjoying the ride. My dad grinned and told us not to worry; we would take the long way home.

Emily C. Ryan works as an editor in electronic publishing and loves to be outside doing anything. Her writing is fueled by the outdoors and her family.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, December 18th, 2006 | Email This Post

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