Dave and I googled to find a nearby Christmas tree farm (Geez, can't you google anything?) and headed out yesterday before the snow began to choose one. I refuse to settle on the first one I see, but it was so windy and cold that I settled on the fourth. Shaken free of dead needles and netted in Christmas red and green, then tied down in the pickup bed, our tree was officially adopted. I don't care how many needles I have to sweep up; I want a real tree with sap and scent and the battle to get it straight in the tree stand.
We've never opted for a themed tree, preferring instead the historic ornaments of his youth and mine. His dad had some really cool straw Scandinavian ornaments that he bought on one excursion or another. I have the ceramic angel Aunt Donna made one year, and penguins given to me by a student at my first teaching job. One of my favorite touches is a flock of fairies made of pink chiffon and white pipe cleaners, reminiscent of the 40s. I like to cluster them together on the tree as if they're harmonizing or communing or planning a Christmas surprise.
We add our own history every year by buying at least one new ornament together. One year it was a ball in the Michigan blue and gold; one year a Christmas pickle. This year to celebrate our new home, which is also home to dozens of red-headed birds, we found a woodpecker. It's so fun to dig through the boxes looking for favorites or rediscovering ones I've forgotten.
I've cleared a perfect space for the tree in a corner of the dining room where it can fill the room with greenery and the bay window with lights. It's as hokey as Holiday Inn, but I can't wait.
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