When I was a very little girl, the farm where I lived had many little fir trees, just right for Christmas. It was no problem at all to go out into one of the back fields or forests, and find the perfect Christmas tree somewhere on the edge of a clearing. But of course the trees grew tall much faster than I did, and by the time I was ten or eleven years old there wasn't a tree left on the farm that would fit into our living room.

We were particular about our Christmas trees, too. Not just any fir would do. They had to be exactly right: full, lush, green, unpruned, and as graceful as a dancer. The perfect tree had to be tall enough to touch the ceiling, but not so tall that we'd have to hack off great chunks to make it fit. And above all, we would never buy a tree. I'm not sure why, but "store-bought" trees represented selling out, submitting to commercialism, settling for something false and inferior. It was beneath our honor to buy a tree. We wouldn't even consider it.

But what other option did we have? It was unthinkable to have a Christmas without a tree, and equally unthinkable to buy one. We scoured our forest but the trees were all either enormous or scrawny. Soon, however, we realized that a veritable goldmine of perfect Christmas trees had been under our eyes all along, not even precisely belonging to anybody in particular, and therefore (to our way of thinking) just there for the taking if we could only figure out a discreet way to get at them. These beautiful little fir trees, which I am sure you also have seen and admired, grow at the edge of the forest alongside almost every country freeway in western Washington.

It didn't take long for us to realize that we had indeed Found the Way. After all, isn't the land along the freeways "public land"? Which means it belongs partly to us, which means it should be all right for us to take just one. After all, think of all the trees that get mowed down in great swathes by loggers, or whenever somebody wants to build another house. If we carefully and lovingly removed just one tree, it might even be beneficial - like thinning. Thinning is good for plants. It allows all the other plants nearby to do better. We realized we'd be doing the ecosystem a favor, and also be obtaining the perfect, non-store-bought Christmas tree. It all made sense.

Other people, however, might not understand the logic of it all, so we concocted an elaborate plan. The first phase involved locating the perfect tree. To do this required two people, a car, a dog, and a piece of nondescript yet visible-at-night garbage. (We discovered that white plastic milk jugs work well for this.) I and my mother and our dog Colleen volunteered for this job. Mama drove up and down the freeways, while I craned my neck left and right, scanning for a promising young tree, and Colleen barked enthusiastically and bounded from seat to seat in the back. When I spotted a tree that looked about right, we parked and let Colleen out. Oh unexpected thrill! She darted around, sniffing things, and hopefully looking to passing motorists like a dog urgently in need of a walk. We casually drew close to the tree and eyeballed it for size, fullness, symmetry, etc., while trying to appear disinterested.

"It seems about the right height... do you think it's as high as our ceiling?"

"Oh, no, honey, it's much too tall. It looked shorter from the road than it really is. We need to find another one."

"Aaaw, are you sure? I think it's perfect. It's such a pretty tree. Oh well..."

We began the process over again, until we'd found the right one. Then, to mark the spot so we'd be able to find it again at night, we carefully placed the white plastic milk jug in the ditch between the tree and the road.

Later that night the second part of the plan was carefully laid. We required a drop-off car, two espionage agents, two drivers, and a getaway vehicle big enough to put a tree in.

My big sister Celeste and I both enthusiastically volunteered for the espionage job. Then we ransacked our dressers, pulling out every black and navy blue item of clothing we could find. Black sweatpants, dark blue sweatshirt, navy knitted cap, black gloves, black socks and shoes, check, check, check... a flashlight and a saw, and we were ready for action.

I forget who dropped us off at the site of the white plastic milk jug, but soon we were scrabbling up the side of the hill toward our tree while the drop-off vehicle zoomed away. Anytime we saw headlights coming we dropped down and hid our faces, and hoped we looked like rocks or bushes. When all was dark again we'd scoot forward up the hill.

"Are you sure this is the tree? That one over there looks about the right size, too."

"No, no! This one is it! I marked it today. See, here's the piece of string I tied on it."

"Hey, turn off your flashlight! A car's coming! What if they see us?" We both dropped down under the tree, hid our faces, and held still. The sound of the car's engine zoomed toward us, passed by, and diminished. We got to work with the saw.

"Hurry up! The truck is going to be here any minute!"

"I'm sawing as fast as I can! This is such an awkward angle... the end of the saw keeps bumping into the ground."

Just then another car came by. We frantically tried to still the rhythmic waving of the branches until the car had passed. I anxiously imagined the driver saying to himself, "Hmm... why is that one tree flapping up and down like that? How very unusual. Maybe I should call the highway patrol." But nothing happened.

Finally the tree toppled over, and I hurriedly rubbed dirt on the little white-faced stump it left behind, and covered it over with tufts of long grass. I wanted to make it look like no tree had ever been there. (You can't be too careful about these things.)

We dragged the tree down to the ditch by the road, and waited nervously.

"What if a car stops, and it isn't them?" I said. "What if they see us? Should we run away and leave the tree behind? What if we get caught? What if they steal our tree?"

"That won't happen," my sister replied irritably. "They'll be here any minute. Be quiet and stop worrying."

At last the truck appeared around the bend, and stopped by the white plastic milk jug. With breathless, scrabbling haste we bundled the tree into the back of the truck, grabbed the milk jug (we may be tree-thieves, but we're not litterbugs!) and leapt into the back. Away we zoomed, to negotiate various back roads just in case we might be being followed, and then to head back home.

Celeste had previously prepared a tag reading "Joe's Tree Farm, $14.95" and while bouncing along we carefully attached the tag to a branch with a bit of wire. You never know, we might get pulled over and the cops might want to examine our tree. For some reason it never occurred to us that our appearance, dressed all in black and carrying a saw, might have caused the police to feel more suspicion than the absence of a price-tag.

One time we were even able, with expert planning, to arrange things so the drop-off and pick-up vehicles could both wait for us by the side of the freeway without arousing suspicion. To do this we decided that Mama would pretend to have car trouble, and a male friend with a truck would pull up behind her and pose as a good Samaritan who had stopped to help.

This plan worked perfectly. None of the passing cars stopped, because it looked to them like the car in trouble already had someone there to help.

Mama dressed for the part, in the sort of clothes she used to wear to church, back when we still used to go; a calf-length crystal-pleated white polyester skirt, white stockings, and high-heeled shoes. The sight of her standing coyly next to our capable-looking friend, pointing at the engine with an awe-struck gaze and saying "Oooh, what's that little thingy? Do you suppose it could be bwo-ken?" was enough to make us choke with laughter. We had watched Mama rebuild that engine herself.

The ride home was always a little nerve-wracking. I feared that a phalanx of police cars would swoop down on us, and... I couldn't quite visualize what would happen after that, exactly, except that it would be bad.

But eventually, as we got closer to home, the anxiety would begin to wear off and my sister and I would be filled with a bubbly, victorious elation. We were Vikings, pirates returning from sea, highwaymen after a heroic and dangerous raid. "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!" we bellowed into the wind.

There is nothing else quite like caroling at night, at the top of your lungs, in the back of a jouncing truck, while you ride successfully home with your prize -- a bristly, aromatic, freshly-stolen Christmas tree.