Just the Right Tree

There is one truth in regards to Christmas decorating that holds steadfast in our household year after year, despite any amount of grumbling on my part and that is: thou must cuttest down thou own Christmas tree. It's the eleventh commandment, I think, and this past Saturday we set out to do just that.

Part of that tradition is that we eat eggs and bacon at a restaurant before we head out into the bitter cold, which is the part of the day I really, really like. How much fun is it to slurp hot chocolate and sop up sticky syrup with yummy pancakes on a plate you know you won't have to wash?


But after all that sugary wonderfulness, it's out into the nineteen degree weather. Or was it sixteen degrees last Saturday? I don't know, but it was cold. And we spent a looong time out there. Superdad (and Hank, for, like two seconds) diligently searched for Just the Right Tree while the kids and I whizzed up and down the open lanes in our sled.


Well, OK, I didn't get to do much (OK, any) whizzing. I got to do a lot of huffing and pulling, but at least that kept me with only my toes feeling like they were going to freeze off as opposed to my entire body.

And then, at last, he found it. Just the Right Tree in row four about a third of the way back. We all quickly agreed with Superdad that it really and truly was Just the Right Tree and we anxiously watched while Superdad cut it down.


No, that's not true. I stood and watched and photographed while Superdad worked away. The two big kids on the other hand...


well, those two little bozos found the tallest snowbank ever (so they said) and played there and pretty much ignored both parents for the remainder of the trip.

And, later that day, after mounting Just the Right Tree on the roof of the van, getting him set into the tree stand, throwing on lights, garlands and ornaments galore we all stood back in awe, reflecting on our wonderful day and nodding in agreement that we had, indeed, found Just the Right Tree.