When I was a little girl, my family would drive out into the country where we would cut our own Christmas tree. Once we were there, it became a long process. My father was a perfectionist and was quite picky. It couldn’t be just any tree. It had to be the best one out there. We would search for what seems like hours. I would watch people come after we did and leave long before, with their non-perfect tree. Often we would return to where we first started, my father saying, “I guess, this one will have to do!” with the disappointment ringing from his voice.
After this entire ordeal, we would drink hot cocoa and take the hay ride that was offered on farm. The hot cocoa was so warming after spending a good deal of the day searching for that perfect tree. Our legs were so tired, that the squares of hay, which we sat on felt more, like a cushion of feathers.
Sometime in my teenage years, we bought our first artificial tree. From there my parents never went back to the real thing.
I couldn’t help but sense my dad’s disappointment of not going back to the tree farm those first few years with the artificial one.
I often look back at those days. It was more than looking for a Christmas tree. It was our family tradition.
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