I was out fishing in the Cedar Key back creeks a week or so ago. A chilly north breeze was blowing but skies were blue and the sun was welcome. The combination of the salt marsh, the weather, and the lapping of the tide on the sides of our boat brought back memories from childhood. The salt marshes of the southeast coasts are very similar although Florida adds mangroves to the usual salt marsh flora.
I grew up on the edge of a salt marsh in the low country of South Carolina but when I work in the back creeks of the Cedar Keys I could be back in my old childhood haunts. An enduring memory is my family`s annual excursion - in our old row boat - across the salt creek that ran behind our house to a little winding feeder creek back in the salt marsh.
We were in search of our Christmas tree - a red cedar.
We knew we would find it somewhere above the black rush and the wrack line that snaked along the shore.
A week before Christmas on a high tide Daddy would row us across the creek, across the big sandbar where we clammed all summer, and into the feeder creek.
I sat in the bow and my brother and sister sat in the broad stern of our cypress-planked boat. A short ways up the creek, Daddy would turn into the shore, step out in the marsh - his feet dry in hip boots - and pull the bow up on the bank.
We`d jump into the wrack line. trying not to soak our sneaker-shod feet.
Seems like most trips I remember were chilly but sunny with blue skies and the creek reflecting the sky.
Daddy led us along the edge of the marsh, skirting the black rush with its sharp needle points. 
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My brother got to carry the axe. My little sister complained about being poked by the black rush. I brought up the rear.
There was a lot of debate as we viewed the cedars that were scattered on the edge of the marsh. Some were too big. Others were too small.
"Next year," Daddy would always say.
Some had a bare side. But if we could find a cedar that grew out on the edge of the marsh it was generally a full well - shaped tree.
That was the one we wanted.
Out there in the golden salt marsh with the intense blue sky and the sun pouring down
a tree looks much smaller than it is.
We almost always picked a tree that was too big.
Daddy would point out how much taller it was compared to his height but we always ended up looking like a floating duck-blind as we rowed back across the creek, the tree overflowing the boat while we stoically sat in its itchy branches contemplating the Best Tree Ever.
Mom met us at the end of the dock when we rowed into our little canal. She would tell us that the tree was beautiful! "But too big."
The tide was high under the dock, the boat just meeting the board walk, and we pulled the tree onto the dock. Daddy hoisted it on his shoulders and carried it to the front yard.
Abandoning him, we stampeded down the dock and inside the house for the cookies and hot chocolate we knew were waiting.
In the back door and out the front, cookies in hand, we ran to the front yard. Daddy was closing the tool shed door.
The tree seemed much shorter ... Of course every tree was beautiful
but best of all were our trips across the creek in the old boat
on a sunny chilly day to find a Christmas tree
on the edge of the salt marsh. | 
