On Chopping Perfect Christmas Trees

Last night, Noah decorated his third Christmas tree for his first Christmas.  Well, he played while we decorated.

Because my grandmother was allergic to evergreens, I grew up with a plastic tree we assembled every year after bringing it down from the attic.  Not until I was married did I have my own live tree.  Now I get to decorate three trees a year: our own, my parents’, and my in-laws.

My wife comes from the home of the perfect Christmas tree, a little town called—I’m not kidding—Spruce Pine.  Since we got married we would always drive up there and pick a Christmas tree from this nice guy who sold trees at a reasonable price, and even offered us a deal on grass fed beef (we had to decline—we don’t eat that much beef).  We’d stuff it in our Corolla, shoving it in the trunk and yanking it through.  We would drive three hours with a tree between us.  A child’s car seat prevents us from doing that ever again.
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