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Mark Freeman 's Commentary First tree not exactly noble, but it�s memorable It�s the first Saturday of December, Christmas tree day, and the prospect of striking out for this year�s family fir is as strangely exciting as it is nostalgic. This will be the tree that wobbles when my son runs past it Christmas Day in his passage from toddler to wildlife consumer � owning his first fishing rod. It�s also the tree where the flicker of Christmas lights will dance in my new daughter�s blue eyes, and where she will find her first pair of diaper-cut, camouflage overalls. It�s our inaugural Christmas with our complete family � now with two kids � and I�m thinking we�ll four-wheel into the high forest, hike through virgin snow and discover that one singularly fabulous fir fit for the occasion. But here I am, behind the wheel of a mini-van with a baby and a toddler strapped in car seats, heading toward a local Christmas tree farm and wondering how I can feel utterly happy and virtually neutered at the same time. Christmas tree hunting is one of those essentially Southern Oregon events, the annual chance for a family to play logger together in woods as close and familiar as our backyards. Everyone piles into a rig and heads above the snow line to find a federally maintained tree that is ceremonially dropped, flopped, bucked, dragged and strapped to the rig like it�s an old-growth fir. And once you get home, you realize that thing you thought was a sapling is actually wider than your unemployed brother-in-law and will engulf your entire living room � if you can get it through the door. But that�s all a no-go for the year double-O. No Rogue River National Forest Christmas tree permit for me. We�re headed to the farm. And it�s not even a U-cut Christmas tree farm. It�s a They-cut. You walk around the farm for a while, find the tannenbaum of your dreams and wave a red flag they give you. Then some real man armed with a chain saw drives a four-wheeler over and falls your fir. Just in case there�s still a drop of testosterone left in your veins, the four-wheeling-chain saw man hoists your tree with one arm and hauls it back to the parking lot. So the only real chance of getting a pinch of pitch on my hands is when I tie it to the mini-van roof before driving home, careful to dodge the potholes. I hope no one recognizes me. It would be like getting spotted fishing in the trout pond at Disneyland. But I know the kids are going to love it. Our oldest, Ben, is a 3.5-year-old human tornado who already shows the skills necessary for future work as a collective bargainer for a union. Everything�s negotiable. I say, "Eat your dinner"; he says, "Just two more bites." I say, "Bedtime�s in 10 minutes." He says, "No, this many minutes," holding up four fingers and one stubby thumb. OK, so maybe he�ll only be a public-employees union negotiator. My newest runt is 9-month-old Maggie, an adorable, blue-eyed baldy whose claim to fame is that she can say "Dada" and then lay a 12-second Bronx cheer that makes me wonder if she�s been reading the letters to the editor about her father. To Ben and Maggie, the They-cut tree farm is an incredible adventure. We strike out on the dirt paths, Ben swinging the red-flag stick like an ax when he�s not stomping through puddles and scratching up dirt piles. Maggie�s with me in the backpack. My wife, Susan, just keeps laughing. For almost an hour, we join the parade of old men in penny-loafers and women in fine dress coats, all strolling to and fro among a field of Scotch pines sculpted into perfect triangles. To me, the trees all look like the aluminum ones Charlie Brown knocks on in the cartoon. I don�t like them. Any of them. Then Ben halts, chops his flag-stick at one wimpy-looking specimen. It�s barely 6 feet tall, and no wider than Ally McBeal. The trunk is a bit askew, but it does sport a few seed cones, meaning it would make a nice wreath but one sad little Christmas tree. "This is an awful nice tree, Mom," he says, stabbing it with the flag-stick. "I want this one. Not two other ones. Just one this time. OK?" It�s our first full family Christmas, in a four-bedroom house, and the kid wants a tree so wimpy it�d be overlooked in a studio apartment. Then the real man comes on his four-wheeler, declares us easy customers for picking a twig and drops the tree faster than you can say, "Where the hell has the old me gone?" The real man hauls our tree away like it�s a loaf of bread. My wife and I can�t help but laugh. "I know it�s lame," she says, "but it�s for the kids." So is the mini-van. The car seats. The little jars of food at two for 85 cents. The house. The yard. All the crap in the garage. The wacky work schedules. The side-jobs. The vacations that used to be fishing trips that are now preschool field trips to pumpkin patches or City Hall. It�s all for the kids. But above all, Christmas is for the kids. And what my kids want from me, they deserve. Back at the parking lot, I pick up the tree in my right hand and wait. Ben grabs the top, proudly and studiously helping bring home the family tree. Maggie peers over my shoulder, her 9-month-old brain enthralled by the gargantuan object her dad and brother are carrying. My wife snaps a picture. I haven�t seen it yet, but I know I�ll treasure that snapshot moment as much 30 years from now as I do today. Maybe someday my kids will want to go above the snow line and cut a federal tree for Christmas. Maybe not. As long as we go together, I know it won�t matter. "I like the Christmas tree place, Dad," my son says. "Me, too," I say. "Me too." (Staff writer Mark Freeman covers the outdoors for the Mail Tribune. 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