THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 1, 1995 TAG: 9511300169
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 84 lines
Every year Bill and I make a pilgrimage to Pungo, just the two of us in the little Chevy pickup truck, in search of the perfect Christmas tree.
We'd like to take my mother and his along with us, but the S10's cab only seats two and so far no one has volunteered to ride in the truck bed with seven feet of prickly needles and undisciplined sap.
Especially after the experience we had last year. We had spent a couple of hours at our favorite ``cut your own'' farm in the far reaches of Pungo before we came across the perfect tree.
In our case, perfect means tall and fat with one slightly flattened side so that it can more easily cozy up to the big front window.
We used to worry about getting a trunk small enough to fit our Christmas tree stand, but we overcame that obstacle years ago when we found that an old pickling crock filled with fine, white Chesapeake Bay sand made a perfect holder for a trunk of any size.
Getting back to last year's tree, Bill and I knew the moment we saw it that it was just what we wanted. ``Good top for the star,'' I said. ``Straight trunk,'' Bill observed. ``Thirty-five bucks,'' the kid who cut and loaded it for us announced. ``Deal,'' we chorused.
``It's the best one yet,'' Bill said as he parked the truck in front of one of Pungo's finest eateries where we had stopped for our traditional tree-cutting lunch of crab cakes and cholesterol.
``Boy, there's a strange odor around here,'' he added as he closed the truck's rear window in the face of gathering rain clouds.
Indeed, rain was falling by the time we finished our lunch and started home but when we reached the Courthouse we drove out of it.
``I'm going to open the window,'' I said. ``It's muggy in here.''
``Yech, that smell is still out there,'' Bill commented as outside air filled the cab.
A few minutes later he dropped me off in front of the neighborhood grocery store. As I walked by the rear of the truck I was struck once more by the same strong odor.
Somewhere between the store's produce section and the deli counter an image began forming deep in my memory.
I was, perhaps, 10 years old and my cousins were all laughing. All but one, that is.
``Billy's so dumb he went out to get a Christmas tree and brought home a skunk spruce,'' they were saying as their 12-year-old brother stood fuming.
I hadn't seen or heard about a skunk spruce since, nor have I ever run across anyone else who has heard the term.
I'm not even sure what one is, whether it truly has to be a spruce that got caught in a skunk's line of fire or if the term can apply to any evergreen unfortunate enough to have a serious body odor problem.
One thing I was pretty sure of, however, was that we had a cypress in the back of the pickup that could qualify for the title.
Unfortunately, I was right.
``So what do we do about it?'' my city boy husband asked when I explained the phenomenon to him.
We explored our options. They boiled down to attempting to return the tree, leaving it outside until Christmas Eve in the hopes that the odor would diminish, or setting it up as it was and living with it.
We took another whiff and narrowed our options to two. In the end we decided to put it up late and take it down early if necessary. For three weeks the tree stood in isolation in a far corner of the back yard. Charlie the Lhasa growled and made wide circles around it. The gas meter reader called his shop to have someone come out and check our line for leaks. Borrowing George checked to see if the odor wafting over the fence was that of a new insecticide. And, if so, could he borrow it.
By Christmas Eve the odor had faded enough that we felt safe in moving the tree into the house.
The next morning my mother arrived to open packages. She wrinkled her nose as she walked through the door. ``What's that?'' she asked.
``Our skunk spruce,'' I told her, ``but it's not nearly so bad as it was.''
``Guess it's a good thing I didn't decide to ride in the back with that,'' she said.
``Guess so,'' I agreed.
I suspect we'll be making the trip to Pungo by ourselves again this year. I also suspect we will carefully sniff-test any tree before we decide to buy it. by CNB