I could not have imagined, before today, the ease with which one picks out a Christmas tree by oneself. No yackity-yack, no dithering, no opinions. Just look at a few trees, walk around for a few minutes, look at the trees again and then bam! Done.
No more tree lots on every other corner, no Boyscout troops raising funds. I succumbed to Lowes (Home! Improvement!) -- a couple of miles from my house, a minimum of carbon fuel burned in the process. Everything bondaged-up in a plastic mesh and crammed into my trunk.
The romance of it -- I used to love tree-shopping -- is just plum gone.
I forgot to have them lop off the trunk end so I have to lug up the Sawz-All and get all butch with my boy-tool.
There were two or three charmed years when we picked the kids up from school, stopped for some hot chocolate, and headed east to Hobart, in the Cascade foothills, to a tree farm. I recall the boys running slap-happy down a rut-pocked hillside, choosing first this tree, then that, every last one of them too tall and frightfully broad at the hips (the trees, not the boys). We found one, of course. Draped with lichen, mossy. An honest-to-god tree. Alive.
So fleeting, those years; and also at times interminable. It all ends: the shape-shifting of time.
Which brings me to here.
Blogging about it.
The tree, as yet un-Sawzed, lies in the front yard.
(And admittedly, solitary pseudotsuga menziesii shopping is dreary.)