When the Fir Flies

Bob’s Trees asks:

“Do you yearn for the yearly family trip to the woods, the smell of a fresh-cut evergreen, and the experience of dragging the family tree through the snow?”

Yearn? Dread is more accurate, because in the past our yearly family trips to Bob’s have threatened to ruin Christmas before it even started. Like the year of the ice storm, when cars were doing 360s in the road on front of the tree farm. Or the time I lost my shoe in the mud —and then the car got stuck in the same mud. Or when I accidentally tied the doors of my car shut. I could go on and on. Freezing weather, rain, snow, slop, filthy stinking dogs, crying children, bitter arguments —these are the spirits of Christmas past at Bob’s Trees.

So naturally, if it goes too easily I get suspicious.

Friday we drove up the hill at Bob’s, found a tree, cut it down, and had it on top of the the car in no time at all. No fuss, no muss, in and out in five minutes. How is this possible, I wonder? There must be something wrong with this tree. Will a colony of spiders hibernating deep in its branches come to life and infest the house? Will I get home and find that it’s shed all of its needles? Will it mysteriously burst into flames?

There’s no way to tell, but meanwhile I am keeping an eye on this tree that came to our home without struggle or strife. Either there’s a catch somewhere or after twenty years we’re getting good at it.

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