Greetings, writers—
Back in 2020, during that first Covid Christmas, my friend Steve texted to see if we wanted to drive up to Mt. Hood and cut down a tree. The other Steve and his family were going, he said, and it was going to be snowy and adventurous and totally rad.
I told him we couldn’t go. This wasn’t because we already had a Christmas tree—although we did, twinkling prettily in the corner of our living room—but that was the excuse I gave. I wouldn’t have gone even if we didn’t have a tree, and the real reason for this was just sort of a bummer.
When our daughters were little—three and five probably, or maybe four and six—we took them to a cut-your-own tree farm half an hour east of town. The day was gray and cold. Jon held our younger daughter in the crook of his arm like a fat Christmas ham while the older one and I trudged through boot-sucking mud, dedicated to finding the best and most wonderful tree. After a frigid half-hour, we saw it, in all its green, pine-scented splendor.
This is the one, we all agreed. It’s perfect.
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