Christmas Tree Hunting

Last year, having only been in our home for two weeks when Christmas rolled around, Phil surprised me with a tree on Christmas eve. He happened to pick up one of the last two trees on the lot (quite a gem with two tops and a hefty left-side). It took a bit of trimming and creative positioning, but it ended up being a very pretty tree for the appropriately discounted $5 price tag.

This year, I was surprised once again when Phil and our friend Michael braved the winter cold to head into town in the big "Hidden Valley Ranch" truck to pick up a tube tree. Or at least that's what I called it. They smush many hundreds of trees onto semi trucks and drive them across the country from Washington and Oregon to sit on the tree lots in front of Iowa's Menard's and Walmart stores. Because they have to sit in such tight quarters, they are bound into tiny tubes. We were assured it would "relax" with the warmth of the house. (Thankfully, they were right!)

Lot trees, by the way, were always a bit "no-no" in my family. So were fake trees. A real tree was appropriately hunted, cut down, and brought home from the woods. Though we tried many different tree farms over the years, our routine remained the same. It looked something like this:

On a December Saturday morning, one that was usually drizzly, we would decide that yes, this was tree hunting day. My sister, giddy with the idea, spent the rest of the morning preparing for the event, while the other three family members (or five, once we were both married) would spend the time watching TV, playing games, or reading. About 15 minutes before we had intended to leave, there would be much commotion and searching for lost snow boots(because rain equals mud). Once we were all packed in the car, my sister and I took stock. What was the plan? How would the perfect tree be located? This part of the trip, I would later learn, was fruitless.

Upon arriving at the tree farm- we would pair off- Me and Sis, Dad and Mom (dad, of course, carrying the saw). Each tree we saw was too short or too fat or too lopsided. Too many or not enough branches. Dad and mom would each find multiple options for us, and we would quickly decide why it was a tad bit inferior. Mom, being the shortest of all of us, would often pick trees vertically challenged, while dad, impatient, would find trees just "not quite right". Kristina, however, would bide her time, being the last holdout of the group.

See, while we were all dilly-dallying around in the morning, she was carefully choosing her wardrobe- three shirts, one coat, long johns, stretch pants and jeans. Two pairs of socks squished in well-insulated shoes. She could be as choosy as she wanted, because she was the only one who was warm.

Back together as a family, we each decided to keep our opinions to ourselves. As time wore on, Kris walked around, comfortable, while we each tried to bring attention to the good points of a particular tree. We started to take layers from her. First, the scarf. Then, the hat. Then, the coat. Finally, she would mention she liked a particular tree. Before she could walk around the back, dad was on the ground, cutting it down. Invariably, halfway through the cutting, she would see a bare spot and squeal "STOP! We can't get this one!" but Dad, undaunted by his youngest's plea kept on cutting.

This year, since I could not be in on the hunt, Kristina called and informed me she would be enlisting the help of technology to involve me. She would send pictures of potential trees via cell phone. Delighted to be involved, I settled in, next to my warm fire, and waited. This time, I think I had the hand up. "Did you remember all of your layers?" I asked, mixing my hot chocolate. "Sure did!" She replied. "Good! Don't forget, I want to see and be able to comment on EACH option." I settled in with a good book, waiting for the first pictures to come across the phone, wondering just how long she might last this year.