Norman Rockwell with a Twist

Despite the unusual lack of Christmas spirit around here and the impending implosion of my ear drums from this unending illness, I decided this was the year to cut our own Christmas tree. We usually have two trees. An artificial in the basement and a real one upstairs-purchased from any corner lot. My kids have, sadly, never had the experience of chosing and cutting a tree themselves.

Anticipating hesitance with at least the teenagers, I braced myself for their resistance. When they seemed amenable (I don't dare say excited) to the idea, I decided to make a thermos of hot cocoa to take along.

Finally, after finding enough warm clothes for everyone and a saw for hacking, we were on our way up north.

The snow was falling in big, lofty flakes and piling up fast. It was a perfect scene for our Christmas tree hunt. I would have preferred to continue the mood with Handel's "Messiah" or some such musical pleasure, but the kids and my husband with their weird senses of humor all seemed more interested in listening to Bob & Tom's "It's a Wonderful Laugh". I conceded, just happy that every one was in a good mood and hummed "O Come All Ye Faithful" to myself.

As we drove further north into snow country, the flakes became smaller and smaller and finally ceased to exist at all. At least there was still some snow on the ground.

After an hour of driving, we pulled into the tree farm, woke up the baby, and bundled up. It was cold! Taking the saw, we headed north out of the parking lot in search of a Balsam Fir. I wanted an aromatic tree this year. We walked past the Concolor Firs, the White Pines, the Spruces and the Balsams. They all start looking the same after a while. (I think I'll remember a sled next year so we can pull the baby instead of carrying his thirty pounds through the snow.)
There was no light shining down upon it nor any choir of angels singing, but when we saw it, we knew that was our tree! It was such a pretty shade of green, had a perfect shape and it's trunk was nice and straight. We sawed it down, and pulled it back to the vehicle, taking turns heaving and hefting.

Then it was time for hot cocoa and peanut bars. The 17 year old promptly burned his tongue with the hot treat (complaining the rest of the way home) while hubby spilled his on the dash in a failed attempt at balancing the cup so he could remove his gloves. Yes, down the vents and all. I'm sure it won't last, but right now the Suburban has a faint chocolate smell in it when we first turn on the heater.

We took our little tree home and got it set up and decorated even. It's beautiful and smells wonderful. I ended up getting a Spruce. (Next year, I'll brush up on my tree identification before we go.)

Norman Rockwell-esque it wasn't, but it was perfect for who we are!

PS: I had pictures on my digital to include in various points of this story, but when I plugged it in, the only pictures were of my 17 year old in his tuxedo from the violin concert last night. Pictures I did not take. The kids must have somehow deleted the tree chopping pictures. Grrrr!