We had a vision about how things would go down. We would walk all in a row amidst the rows of towering pine trees, our feet softly crunching in the snow. Our breath would hang around our faces in soft white puffs. As we searched for the perfect tree, we would sing, our voices reaching towards the sky in unison. “Oh, Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree…”
It was going to be a day we remembered forever, the beginning of a new family tradition: our trip to the cut your own Christmas tree farm.
Except it didn’t exactly work out that way.
For starters, there was no snow on the ground, just a hard, frozen soil. The absence of the white stuff would have been fine, if it hadn’t also been freezing, bone wrenching cold that makes me shiver all over again as I write from the warmth of my couch.
Then there was the bickering over the sleds. Who would pull them, who would be first, whose turn it was, who was the most annoying brother in the world, who was the meanest big sister, poop, butt, meanie, MOMMY! Kind of put a damper on the Christmas spirit.
Once the war of the sleds was settled, we marched off to cut down our tree. And we marched, and we marched, and we marched. But the majestic evergreen we had envisioned was nowhere to be found. Instead we only found many cousins of Charlie Brown’s shriveled tree, sad little pines that inspired pity.
And so, after much searching, we piled back into the car, tree-less, with an unfulfilled vision. We found our perfect tree the next day at a nearby nursery. It required no sawing, no marching, and needed no sleds to be ferried back to the car.
But by the time we hefted it inside the house, wrestled it into its stand, and positioned it in the living room, exactly how we got it became irrelevant. The tree was there, filling our home with its delicious aroma of pine and presents.