Tonight, we trim the tree.
Tonight, we see what this tree really looks like.
Yesterday, Don stopped at Home Depot to pick up our tree -- the cheapest offering we could find in the area. The ad said, "Balsam Fir, 6-8 feet, $26.99." Usually we like to pick out the tree family-style, making a big to-do about the whole thing. Our favorite tree experience occurred when Aidan was just three months old. We bundled him in about 10 layers of clothing under his bulky baby snowsuit, strapped him into the car seat and away we went to a local PA-German man who allowed folks to tramp on his property each year, cutting down the tree of their choice for a mere $10. As usual, Baby Aidan -- who never slept at home -- fell asleep in the car, but we would not let that hold us back. We picked him up in the carrier, brought him with us as we forged through almost two feet of snow until we found The Tree. We placed his carrier in the snow, and our little Baby Bundle slept while Daddy ripped the chain saw cord like Paul Bunyan in a clerical collar, chopping away at our tree of choice. If Baby Jesus could sleep in a smelly, noisy barn full of snorting animals, our boy could sleep through the chain saw lullaby. Aidan has been a part of our Christmas Tree Hunt each year, and frankly it pays off -- last year our boy, at age four, picked out our tree from the church lot, and it was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. Way to go!
But this year, we found ourselves short on time. Besides, I didn't trust Grace in a lot full of Christmas trees -- I had no idea what kind of mischief she would get herself into, nor did I want to find out. The best solution was for Don to pick it up himself on his way home from work. We had a plan.
At 5:15 p.m., Don called me. "I got the tree and I'm on my way home."
"Great!" I said. "How tall is it?"
His response: "6 to 8 feet."
I paused. "What? You mean you don't know how tall it is?"
No.
"OK ... well, what does it look like?" I asked, moving on.
"I don't know," he replied.
I paused again. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
His answer: "I didn't see it."
I paused yet again. "You just bought the tree ... how can you not know how tall it is or what it looks like?" I felt like I was talking to my five-year-old.
Aaahhh ... after several attempts, the story finally came out. He walked in, found a tree, but there was no one around to help him take care of it. He saw other tree hunters standing in some haphazard line, also waiting for assistance. Considering the fact that he had one hour to get the tree, run to the bank, drive home, eat dinner, and rush off to band practice ... he dumped the tree, walked over to the stack of still-wrapped beauties, picked up the first one he came to, paid for it, and quickly left.
Oh my. This truly goes against all Christmas rules. Bringing home a "mystery tree" cannot be good. Considering the fact that Murphy's Law seems to rule my life more often than not, our tree will most likely have a squirrel in it and wreak havoc in our home a la Chevy Chase's Christmas Vacation. And if by some stroke of luck a squirrel is not present, then it will probably have a gigantic hole one on side of it, branches torn away, chewed out by a hungry bear looking for the said squirrel. The possibilities are truly endless.
After dinner, our Mystery Tree will be unveiled. And yet ... who knows. This might be fun. Maybe this will be our new tradition -- not spending the time and effort picking out the perfect tree each year, buy rather picking up the first plastic wrapped tree we come to and get our joy from the mystery, the unveiling.
Now, that's looking at Santa's glass of milk half-FULL!
Stay tuned for a stunning photo of our bedecked house guest for the next month ...
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