We have this tradition of going about 45 minutes north to the same Christmas tree farm each year and cutting down our tree. This year we had one tiny window available, which happened to be yesterday after school. (Due to basketball games, piano, student council, tennis, yearbook,, confirmation class, etc, we have very little free time as a family these days.) Pulled my kids out of school early (not knowing that Leah was in the middle of a math test), threw on boots, snow pants, scarves and hats; raced up to the farm, trying to beat the snow storm. We arrived about 3:45, knowing they close on Fridays at 5 p.m. We drove around, trying to find a good tree. And drove around, and walked around, until finally it was getting dark and we had to make a decision. The kids were complaining, it was cold, I was shoving hot chocolate at them and trying to take cute pictures while Mike sawed down the tree. Almost dark. Can’t get the enormous, heavy tree on top of our car. Called the tree farm phone # from my cell phone pleading for help. Only 2 guys working, and they couldn’t come help us. Flagged down the only other family crazy enough to be getting their tree in the middle of a Minnesota snow storm (but they were smarter and had a pick-up truck). Got the other dad to help haul the tree on top of the car. Gingerly drove to the exit. Ask the guy working there to save my marriage and help tie the tree to the top of the car safely. Snowing very hard now, and pitch dark, running very late for dinner with friends and also needed to get our oldest daughter to her friend’s house for cookie-baking party. Stressful. Storming. Cars off the road, sirens, ambulances, poor visibility. Kids tired, hungry, thirsty. Finally home. Today: put the tree up. It’s perfect. Big, fat, and beautiful. And as every year, we all agree that it was worth it, and I laugh to myself because every time I look at that tree I think of the funny ridiculous effort that went into getting it here.
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