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HERE WE ARE, the yard man and I, still at the Christmas tree farm, Reader Dear. The tractors are roaring and the horses clip-clopping, and the people milling. The yard man and I wander around a while, trying to figure out the protocol. We discover a gift shop, where they're passing out free cocoa and candy canes, a cafe set up in an empty barn, and...hmm...an area where already-cut trees are standing elegantly by, looking for all the world as though they're...for sale!




Employees are running around like elves on the night before Christmas, but we finally snag one and ask our question: How does one go about actually GETTING a tree?
Well, we're told, one can ride a wagon-- pulled by tractor or horse--to the far reaches of the farm, where a tree of one's choosing is tagged, cut down, brought back and trimmed and tied up for the buyer. "There's an area where we have cut trees, too," explained the guy, over the din of the arriving tractor. "And any that you see with a red tag are ones that have something wrong with them--holes, misshapen--stuff like that. We get them ready for you, just like the others. They're a discounted price. But they're still nice," he added, "and they were just cut yesterday!"



Not so long after, the yard man was hoisting our twine-bridled tree with the lovely red tag into the truck. (It sure hadn't looked like it had any flaws to me, and the yard man was downright chipper, singing the praises of the tree farm, "This is such a great place, so nice for families, a fun experience!" He really put himself into loading that tree, too!)













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Riding home, I bemoaned to the yard man, "I looked EVERYWHERE! That nice big tree-holder I got a couple years ago is not to be found! I searched the attic--twice! It's not in the basement, not in the storage shed! I can't imagine what happened to it!
"Did you look in the bathroom closet?" the yard man inquired.
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We hurried home, dropped the tree on the porch, and went off to spend the evening with that famous Little Actor, who, spotting the handmade creche I carried in the door ( built by my father a long time ago, discovered as I scoured the attic for a second time) crowed, "Barn!"and promptly filled it with horses of various sizes and a beloved sheep that looked to be on steroids.

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When the Little Actor had retired for the night, I told the yard man, "I'll be back real soon," and I trundled off to Walmart for a tree stand.
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The next day was already lurking around the door by the time the yard man and I got home, but I pounced on the idea that the tree--hog-tied and lying forlornly on the porch--should be released from it's binder twine bondage and given some water without further delay. "Just sit it in the holder, it'll only take a minute! I cajoled my yard man, "I'll take care of it from there."
He harrumphed, but heave-ho'd that tree into place.
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I can only imagine the tree was happy for the well full of water I poured into its base. As for the untying--it gave a low rustling sigh as I snipped the string and its arms reached out further...and further...and, wow, this is a portly one, Reader Dear!


Oh, Christmas tree, O, Christmas tree, as I go off to bed, I'm smiling. How lovely are they branches.













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