Every Christmas, one hears stories about thieves breaking into houses and stealing presents out from under Christmas trees.
It’s a low act, but, I wondered – with Christmas approaching – are there thieves who are so low that they will steal the actual trees?
Not out from above the presents, but from the source: Christmas tree farms.
I telephoned the Sydney Christmas Tree Farm to find out. Ron, ex-school teacher, now tree farmer, agreed to meet me at his farm – but only after I’d promised I wouldn’t buy a tree.
I had initially promised to buy one, but he made me take that back.
“I’m out of trees already this year,” he confided over the phone.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t really want one.
He seemed relieved.
“Truth is,” I said. “I don’t really like Christmas, or Christmas trees.”
“So, tell me again, why’d you want to come here?”
I remained coy. I didn’t want him to think I was casing the joint … like just another everyday thief, going door to door, sizing up poor unsuspecting Christmas tree farmers.
Arriving at the farm, I was surprised to find that, all of a sudden, I felt happy.
The trees made it happen. No doubt it’s a learned reaction to a pine tree that’s been trimmed to a certain shape. Seeing all those trees lined up in their thousands … why it felt like Christmas. As in, the nice thing; the idea of the thing … not the real thing.
Ron appeared with a broad smile, a grey beard, and with sheers in hand. He led me into his trees and I followed him, walking up and down the rows, while he snipped.
“It’s quite relaxing out here,” I said.
“I think so,” he said. “So, if you don’t want a tree, what brings you here?”
I explained my interest in Christmas tree thieves.
“Have you ever lost a tree to a thief?” I asked.
“Last year,” he said with a snip. “A family came to collect their tree. We went to look for it, and found it was gone. Then I found the hole in my fence. Someone had cut through, and stolen the tree in the night.”
“What happened?”
“The family weren’t too happy. They’d come before and picked out a pretty nice looking tree. Had to find them a new one, but it wasn’t nearly as good.”
“I suppose there’s a bit of money in a good tree?”
“Well these ones,” he said, gesturing to some specimens that would have been about five feet tall. “These I sell for sixty dollars apiece.”
Sixty dollars? I tried to think of the last thing I did for sixty bucks … a phone call, sending an email or two?
“How old are these trees?”
“Well, they grow about one foot a year.”
“So, five years old?”
“That’d be about right.”
“And you clip them how often?”
“About three times a year.”
Good lord.
“Plus, I fertilise them, and weed them, and help people cut them down, and put them in their cars.”
“Is this actually worth doing?” I said. “Tree farming I mean?”
“I’ve got a friend,” said Ron. “He’s a lawyer, like you. He says that if I run out of trees every year, then I’m not charging enough.”
“Wise words.”
“Think so?”
We kept walking. Ron continued to snip.
“I might have to head home now,” I said. “At least I know now that there is such a thing as a Christmas tree thief.”
Ron gathered up some cuttings. He gave me a bunch to take home, in lieu of a tree.
“Thanks. Maybe next year, I’ll come back and buy one,” I said, knowing full well I won’t.
I’m always too busy for a Christmas tree. I seem to run out of time every year.
Probably it’s because I’m not charging enough.