We were going after a Christmas tree. We were piling everyone—dogs included—into the van and heading out across the Airline Road to find a Christmas tree. What we were really doing was making memories. But it wasn’t easy with three rambunctious boys, ages nine, seven, and four. It took most of the morning just to get them all bundled into their snowsuits, boots, hats, and mittens and secure them in the child safety seats. Then the squabbles began. 

“Dad, Ben’s got my book!” 

 “No, he didn’t want it.” 

“No, he took it.” 

 “My feet are cold.” 

“Mommy! I have to pee.” 

 “Oh, good grief.” 

“We’d better go now before they get hungry,” my wife, Jean, said. 

Back when I was deer hunting, I’d found a really nice patch of prime Christmas trees. The boys didn’t argue or fuss or fidget or cry any more than usual so the trip back into the woods was rather pleasant. The day was crisp and clear, and skim ice covered the puddles in the skidder ruts. 

“Look at all those trees.” 

“Where are the dogs?”  

“Ben, don’t stomp in that puddle.” 

“Jeremy, where’s your other mitten?” 

We were all alone out in the Hancock County puckerbrush. “OK, boys,” I said. “Let’s go get a Christmas tree.” I fetched a small bow saw from the rear of the van, and like the seven dwarfs minus two, we marched single file down the center of the old tote road. 

“How about this one?” I said as I stood beside a fir. 

 “Nah, it’s too small.” 

“Over here. Look at this one.” 

“No, it’s lopsided.” 

On we marched with Jean coming along behind, bringing up the rear. Stumps, puddles, rocks, skim ice, birch bark, the dogs, and bird feathers easily distracted the boys. “Come on, guys,” I said. “We’re here to choose a tree.” 

“Dad where do the rabbits go?” 

 “Are these deer tracks?” 

“Where’s Jeremy?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“I’m cold.” 

“Does anyone come here, Dad?” 

 “No,” I told them. “We’re alone, I think.” 

Then Ben came running up with the panties. “Hey, Mom! What are these?” 

Oh, my gosh. The seven year old had found a pair of lady’s underwear way out there in the boonies! Jean shot me a glance that would have melted a glacier. I immediately went into damage control mode. “Now boys, you put those down. Ben, where did you find them?” 

“Dad, why are there a woman’s panties out here in the woods?”  

Oh, boy! I was in a fix, for sure. How could I tactfully explain finding a pair of women’s panties on a deserted tote road to a seven year old and his brothers? 

“Well, you see guys, maybe they fell out of someone’s backpack.” 

“But they look new,” Ben said. 

“Well,” I said, “I ah …I ah.” 

By now Jean had examined the garment in question. “They’re mine,” she said. “They’re mine.” Huh? “Yes,” she said as she hurriedly folded them up and stuffed them into her pocket. The boys looked stunned. “Mom!” they chorused. She looked over at me and said, “They must have got caught up inside the leg of my jeans, and they fell out when we began walking.”  

Hmmm. “Well,” I said looking at the boys, “you guys find a Christmas tree yet?”