o christmas tree

My mom is a true pioneer woman.  She hunts every autumn (seriously - we're eating venison thanks to Nani).  She grinds her own whole wheat flour to make bread.  She... let's just say I could (and maybe will) write an entire post about her many pioneering attributes.  The true irony is that she's spent a lifetime of dancing and teaching ballet.

 

I admit I'm no pioneer woman, but every once in a while I want to be like that.  This year, our family decided to take advantage to living in an area known for its evergreens. Imagine a first for us: tree hunting with saw in hand, bounding through snow to a glorious spot.  Finding our Christmas tree deep in the forest and hauling it home in a one-horse-open-sleigh.

Okay, it wasn't quite like that.  We went to a tree farm.  In town.  True to our lovely climate, we trekked through mud in the rain to find just the perfect evergreen... and then another... and then another...

The boys reminded me to see beauty in non-conformity.  I reminded them to pay attention to details.  They looked at trees their height, stringy branches reaching out to poke their cheeks. I found tall, handsome tannenbaums.  They found trees with holes from thin branches scattered unevenly.  They pointed to ones whose spines had bent against the northern wind a bit too much to stand straight.  I found ones full of even, neatly spaced bows and tall, straight trunks.

In the end, we found two trees we could agree on.  The first was at the bottom of the hill.  To take it home would require a very long hike to the top of the hill.  Wisely, we decided to wait on that one and see if there were any lovely trees nearer the top. 

 As we hiked into the thick of nobles, we found IT.  There (in a very convenient place) stood a gorgeous, full, healthy tree.  At about 8 feet tall, it was magnificent.  They boys shrieked with delight, and I sighed at finally finding one we could all agree on.  There we gathered, smiling, imagining it covered in lights... 

But enough of that.  There was a saw in my hand, and I needed to get that tree out of the forest - er, tree farm - before the rain thoroughly soaked us.

We posed for a few photos, and then I set the boys to stand back so I could cut our fresh, "live" tree for Christmas.  A few tugs back and forth on that saw, and I was huffing and puffing with very little to show for my effort.  Mud covered my cute, plaid boots and squished up onto the cuffs of my jeans.  My ski hat caught a branch, pulling my hair with it.  Without work gloves, needles were painfully sharp on my cold fingers.  Obi-2 started wandering away from the safe spot where I'd placed him to see the action up close, and I started to envision my 2-year-old crushed by a wayward falling Christmas tree. 

I finally admitted I was over my head in this adventure.  Would I be like a pioneer and cut our own tree, or head to the Boy Scout's stand and purchase one?

Well, I did neither.  Instead, I transformed from pioneer woman to damsel-in-distress.  I pulled out my cell phone, made a call to my knight in shining armor (whose office was minutes away), and begged him to take an early lunch.  Thankfully, he obliged, and cut the tree at its base with swift, strong motions.  He also made quick work of lifting, tying, binding, and securing it to our van. I only had to hand our friendly tree-farmer some change and sweetly chirp "Merry Christmas!" before we were on our way.

So, folks, there you have it.... the story of how we got our Christmas Tree. 

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,

How lovely are your branches.