We don't shop.
We don't pepper spray the masses in order to have the best pick
of Wal-Mart ladies' comfort tees.
We don't eat leftover pie
(We don't leave extra, silly. That pie gets eaten!)
The day after Thanksgiving is
always has been
and always will be
Christmas Tree Day.
Growing up, we'd go buy one from a lot.
When I moved out after high school,
it became the day I hauled the fake tree out of the box
(turns out I'm allergic to fire-retardant used on commercial lot Christmas trees).
Now, for my mother and my step-dad
it's the day they go to the Tree Farm and cut down the perfect
Or was it white pine?
And a general triangular shape.
This year marked Elena and Stella's first trip to the tree farm.
And we bought two trees.
One for Grammy and Papa,
and one for our little nook inside my mom's house.
(Which is currently skirted with a handmade tutu from a fairy party. More on that later).
Mom and the girls picked out the trees,
Papa manned the saw,
and I, of course,