Flip 10--SW Carman Drive and Kruse Way

12/15/07 4:07 PM Saturday

Location: Parsons Farm Christmas Tree Lot

Rural buildings catch my eye: a barn, old cars, a house overgrown with brambles, a surprising find less than a mile from Interstate 5. In this part of town, business parks and commercial real estate are the norm, and most of the houses were built long after the last farms were plowed under.

On the property of the little farm there's a Christmas tree lot. I pull off Kruse Way and into the tiny gravel parking area, puddled and muddy from rain.

I smell pine needles and pitch, which I love. There's a large tent off to one side. This is the Parsons Farm lot.

A young blond woman works the till, while exhausted-looking men in rubber overalls heft trees out of the bark mulch lot and over to the shaking machine. The machine shakes the tree violently to get the needles and bugs out of it. With a Stihl chainsaw, they cut little discs off the ends of the trunks to allow for drinking.

Couples and families arrive in a steady stream to peruse the selection, which is still extensive at this early date. In addition to trees, there are wreaths and boughs for sale, bright red felt ribbons, and metal stands. Hand-painted signs advertise prices.

I ask the man in charge if I can go back and explore the farm. "Just don't go past the barn," he says. This is not his property, and he doesn't want to cross the owners. I walk behind the main house, which is mostly covered in wispy brambles. Under a clear plastic tarpaulin is an old Airstream trailer, its end gleaming in the setting sun, its front window boarded up.

The yard is cluttered with detritus: wood and metal scraps, plastic bottles, piping, brick, an old car in a carport. The barn is actually further beyond the house, and I decide not to explore it, but I can tell that it's ancient, and possibly made of cedar planks. Beyond the edges of the property, in a tangle of blackberry vines, is a pile of rusted farm equipment.

This is not a farm but the relic of a farm, stranded on its own diminishing island, like an old train depot in the middle of a paved-over town square.

The once-a-year bit of agricultural work that is still done here--the selling of Christmas trees--is imported from somewhere else.