When I lived in Bermuda, Christmas trees, which were imported from Canada, were sold behind the convenience store just down the road. Some lumberjack type (also from Canada?) pulled a bunch out of the container, shook them loose and we pointed to the one we wanted. Easy! We might have even held cup of cocoa in our hands while selecting.
But we live in Wisconsin now so we decided to cut down our own Christmas tree. Unless there will be s’mores and carolers and babysitters next year, it is not an exercise I intend to repeat.
My sweet baby was in a snit so we all endured a seemingly endless morning of whine and wrong. And no tree looked right to me, something was off about every single one so things just draaaaaagged on. Finally, fresh out of preferred snacks and clean pants (don’t ask), child refusing jacket and boots, we picked the best of the worst so WE.COULD.JUST.GET.THIS.OVER.WITH.ALREADY.
It doesn’t even smell like anything.
I let it sit for a few days in the living room. Undecorated. Aroma-less. Shunned.
Finally my To Do Conscience got the better of my Bad Attitude and I trimmed her. I trimmed her good.
Though sparse and slighty misshapen, you can make anything look good in sparkles and shine.
I truly enjoy decking my halls but next year I think we’ll go to the Home Depot lot.