As I pedal through groves of Hazelnut trees, I don’t think about millions of kids around the world spreading Nutella on their toast each morning.
Gliding past rolling hills covered with Grape vines I never give a second thought to glasses clinging and ringing with cheers at weddings, birthdays and holiday gatherings.
The golden waves of grain don’t conjure up the scent of homemade bread in my head, although a field of Mustard will occasionally prompt a distant voice inside my noggin to ask, “Excuse me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”
A sea of Red Clover might take my mind back to childhood gum choices, and Peach trees instantly transport me back to our first harvest in Oregon when we discovered nothing can match the sweet taste of a fresh picked Peach.
Riding my bike through bountiful acres of Oregon seldom sparks more than a peaceful easy feeling as I soak in the beauty. After 18 years of plying the gravel backroads, well, I figured I pretty much have seen it all.
But the curtain never falls on Oregon’s wonders.
That struck me as I climbed a short hill between towering Oaks lined up behind a weathered barbed-wire fence along a Hayfield border, and gently swung around a corner to have my breath halted as I gazed upon Christmas trees of all sizes dotting the landscape all the way to the horizon.
Most trees perfectly coiffed, appearing as though they were dropped from an assembly line cookie cutter, standing at attention in anticipation of their pending deployment like a marching band about to strike up a halftime extravaganza.
I suppose I gently feathered my brakes to pull me to a stop, although I wouldn’t rule out any magical intervention drawing me to pause.
As I looked across the countryside I could imagine hundreds and hundreds of living rooms throughout the land with these joyful Evergreens adorned and sparkling with ornaments and lights and tinsel.
I could see stacks of gifts neatly wrapped with ribbon accents and, of course, waves of children with twinkling eyes and beaming smiles. My heart warmed, if not melted a bit.
I rolled a little farther, and stopped again. Then again. And yet again.
I couldn’t pull myself away nor extinguish my gaping grin and the childlike flutter in my tummy.
Then, as if a lone spotlight had been cast upon it, one tree stuck out from the rest. Not quite as sparse as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, yet nowhere near as robust as its field companions.
Yes, that one in a million stirred something inside as I felt a kindred connection.
I wondered how many passersby breeze past this slice of Oregon beauty without a second thought of the countless unwritten stories within their sight.
I hope a lot fewer than I imagine, or, at least, more than one in a million.
A side note, I returned to this magnificent view just before Thanksgiving to hear the whine of chainsaws to see that the slaughter had begun.
Time to ride.
