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The saga of the tree....
On Sunday, we went off into the wilds of the Santa Cruz Mountains to the tree farm to hunt down a tree. Never mind that it was 45 degrees F and occasionally blowing rain sideways -- we're hardy folk (hah!), and this is a tradition. The leader of the pack was perfectly comfortable, but then he was wearing the gear he takes to the Arctic every summer.
After trudging up and down muddy hillsides (with me paranoid that all of us were going to stumble into poison oak at any second), and after having discovered a red salamander in a mud puddle (way cool!) we came across a tree. The bozo who had cut the tree had a) disobeyed instructions to leave a full row of branches at the bottom, so the tree was probably going to die and b) had abandoned the tree cut a little more than halfway across because the trunk had split (not in any way that hampered its usefulness as an ornament stand, mind you). The tree was lying forlornly on its side when we walked up to it.
Sad to day, I was not enthusiastic about getting this tree. I wanted the freshest tree possible. But all three of my kids insisted we had to have this tree because, as the youngest put it "it needs us." (The insidious hand of Charles Schultz strikes again.) "Yeah, mom," chimed in the eldest, "if we don't get it no one will, and the tree will be wasted." So my environmentally conscious children got their way (at that point I would have agreed to pink aluminum if it would have gotten me off that hillside into someplace nice and warm). As it was, the tree farm let us have it for half price, so I was somewhat mollified.
And you know what? I'm looking at it right now, and darned if it isn't a nice tree. Charlie Brown was right after all.
On Sunday, we went off into the wilds of the Santa Cruz Mountains to the tree farm to hunt down a tree. Never mind that it was 45 degrees F and occasionally blowing rain sideways -- we're hardy folk (hah!), and this is a tradition. The leader of the pack was perfectly comfortable, but then he was wearing the gear he takes to the Arctic every summer.
After trudging up and down muddy hillsides (with me paranoid that all of us were going to stumble into poison oak at any second), and after having discovered a red salamander in a mud puddle (way cool!) we came across a tree. The bozo who had cut the tree had a) disobeyed instructions to leave a full row of branches at the bottom, so the tree was probably going to die and b) had abandoned the tree cut a little more than halfway across because the trunk had split (not in any way that hampered its usefulness as an ornament stand, mind you). The tree was lying forlornly on its side when we walked up to it.
Sad to day, I was not enthusiastic about getting this tree. I wanted the freshest tree possible. But all three of my kids insisted we had to have this tree because, as the youngest put it "it needs us." (The insidious hand of Charles Schultz strikes again.) "Yeah, mom," chimed in the eldest, "if we don't get it no one will, and the tree will be wasted." So my environmentally conscious children got their way (at that point I would have agreed to pink aluminum if it would have gotten me off that hillside into someplace nice and warm). As it was, the tree farm let us have it for half price, so I was somewhat mollified.
And you know what? I'm looking at it right now, and darned if it isn't a nice tree. Charlie Brown was right after all.