1 December 2022
Recently, I decided that a trip to the Snowy Peaks Tree Farm in Foresthill was almost mandatory. My use of the word “mandatory” has been all but banned from my mind, literary and otherwise, due to several years of its exhaustive, ubiquitous and oppressive usage by the Globalist Government Ghouls. The term has been rendered all but meaningless, at least for now.
One colossal and subsequent consequence of yet another word-warping in America is that hordes of individuals discovered what stinkers their blood relatives really are. They’d probably already suspected that truth, but the reflexive bowing down to the Cult of Covid by those “family members” came as a most distressing and defining moment to millions of Americans.
The truth can hurt. Presently, the “Friends and Family” sales and events consist of more Friends than Family, although there probably aren’t as many so-called friends on speaking terms due to killer-germ-phobia. Maybe the marketing geniuses at the globalist corporations can revise their sales gimmick to “Foes and Fibbers”, a vast demographic.
I’d not traveled to this tree farm in the Sierra Nevada since the winter of 2016. That trek was a somewhat sad but determined act on my part to introduce my new beagle, Chance, to an annual holiday tradition. The previous pre-Christmas visit, in 2015, had been even sadder and more determined for me because I was traveling, at least physically, without my beloved beagle, Bridget, the Christmas Queen. She’d only recently gone to Her Reward in late August.
While Last Year was an adamant affirmation that No One Is Taking Christmas Away from Us, This Year is, for me, an auspicious adventure in my new Bronco toward the celebration of matters celestial and terrestrial. Snowy Peaks is located about an hour away from my home, arrived at via narrow two-lane, mountainous thoroughfares. There, in the Tahoe National Forest, acres of silvertips and white firs present superb options for the freshly-cut tannenbaum.
I greatly prefer the silvertip, for layering all of those picturesque ornaments. Drought, however, especially a prolonged one, adversely affects the growth of trees, particularly evergreens. The white fir is sometimes the better choice. Sometimes, it’s the only one!
Last late November, Dear Husband came home with an un-authorized noble fir from Home Depot. I’d mentioned wanting a Big Tree, and Mr. Noble filled the bill!
This year, it was quite evident, and sadly so, that back-to-back drought cycles had put a real hurt on Mother Nature and Father Tree in the Tahoe National Forest.
We hiked through the snow-melted-mud, down some trails and then up a few slopes. Finally, we located the best Charlie Brown tree that we could find. It’s a silvertip, missing half of its backside on the bottom boughs. We’ll give it some love, and place it outside — on the front porch. There, one and all can recall the immortal words from the Gospel of Luke regarding the true meaning of Christmas, as spoken by little Linus van Pelt, so long ago.
And tomorrow, Dear Husband and Chance will pay an authorized visit to Home Depot to purchase the big, tall, fully-boughed evergreen. That fully decorated fir shall reside in all its festive glory in the sunroom, in front of the double doors, adjacent to the dining area. For whatever reason (which I don’t know, but others probably do), I don’t place the Christmas tree in the same location two years in a row.
The capitalists at Snowy Peaks have been valiantly surmounting the assaults upon private enterprise by the State of California since this family founded their tree-farm business in 1998, just outside of Foresthill.
They’ve been weathering the weather of yet another year of drought and forest fires. The Mosquito Fire burned just south of Foresthill from early September until its full containment on 22 October. That occurrence came just in time for the proprietors to open up shop for the new season on the day after Thanksgiving, which is the long-established annual practice.
I’m always enchanted by the array of tall trees, the campfire, the elf village, and the horse-drawn wagon that offers rides to kiddies and older kiddies, in fact, to kiddies of all ages. During these last two winters, I didn’t want to have to witness — out in the frosty wide open air of the forests of the Sierra Nevada— the governmental edict-lunacy being unconstitutionally and immorally imposed on innocent law-abiding citizens. I therefore avoided that crassly absurd reality in many parts of Scam-demic California.
Avoidance is not a defense mechanism that I enjoy, appreciate, or utilize with many things in life. I guess you could say I avoid avoidance. Evidently, I’m not really good at that type of behavior because the need for it keeps emerging, from seemingly out of nowhere, and I simply want the situation to go away! Fast.
I was consequently very aware of my quite intentional and tenacious use of avoidance in myriad aspects of my life as I attempted to protect myself whilst navigating living sanely amidst the latest madness of the tacky ruling class.
I’m not waiting for a recovery that cannot and shall not happen, at least not in a real world:
The greedy bastards are not going away quickly, or quietly.
My advice: Avoid them like the plague!
The net result of my several years of a bottled-up chi is akin to a Jacqueline-in-the-Box, popping out after being stuffed down and coiled up for many many moons. The full moon last night was a definite signal for me to yowl!
December is a wintry month that can chill a person to the bone, but I feel the warmth of sincere loving hearts surrounding me; the exuberance of patriots on the march toward liberty and life; and the fortitude of millions of faithful warriors, working to salvage freedom and reclaim democracy in America.
Making Christmas Great Again has been a work in progress for decades, at least where the faithful believers of the truth are concerned. Listening to our own programmed playlist of songs most definitely added to our joy to the world, during an era that looks bizarre and wretchedly crazy.
Looks can be deceiving.
Underneath the bitter cold snow, new life awaits a springtime of abundant realization for all those who persist and prevail over evil. Evil, of late, has indeed taken on the fraudulent form of bland idiots, marching like morons in lock-step to the monotonous beat of the money-grubbers and power-mongers.
Just remember, they can’t take it with them!
Confide in these immaculate lyrics, written on Christmas Eve of 1868 by Phillips Brooks, American Episcopal clergyman and author:
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.
It is my ardent hope that all who look forward to celebrating the birth of the Babe in the manger will experience the timeless treasure of love in the air at Christmas, not necessarily at a mountain tree-farm, but wherever you might be.
The Light in the darkness shines more brilliantly today than ever before, mostly because that Light is needed more than ever before. Open your heart to those radiant beams. Miracles will happen.
This year, we’re saying: