The Promised Christmas Tree Post

Every year I regale you lucky ducks with near death experiences of our annual Christmas Tree Hunt.  You can check out old ones here and here.  Every year is different, seeing as how we're gypsy wannabes who can't stay put or go to the same mountain every year, but one thing remains the same:


Something will go hideously wrong.


Chopping down our own tree is a family tradition that began, I suppose, when I was but a wee babe, tucked in my Papa's flannel jacket while Mama sprinted ahead "just around that one last corner."  The menfolk in my family tend not to enjoy this particular tradition for some reason (something to do with missing football and lugging back a tree the size of Mt Kilimanjaro) and they will more than likely morph into the dad from A Christmas Story when he looses his cool over the furnace and weaves a tapestry of profanity that still hangs over Lake Michigan to this day.  But tradition is tradition is tradition and if they don't want gravy in their stocking to go with their coal, the menfolk will oblige the womenfolk and the childrenfolk.

Having lived both in Wyoming and Michigan, places where it gets rather cold and snowy to say the least, we were pleasantly surprised to trek through the dirt this year instead of the snowbanks up to our armpits.  We're used to losing Anna, who is vertically challenged, and only seeing the tips of her pigtails sticking out of the snow.  We've lost dogs altogether and possibly one grandpa.

So, this year...it was fast!  It was not cold!  There was no whining!  The car didn't get stuck!  We didn't get lost!  We remembered snacks!  We only had to drive a mere thirty minutes!  We were back in under two hours!

I had even asked for time off from Nutcracker rehearsals so I could dedicate the day to our tree hunting.  My boss looked at me and asked if there was a death in the family to warrant such an absence twenty days before Nutcracker.  There might be, I replied, there's always that risk.

So, the problems didn't rear their ugly heads until we got home.  Then we came to understand a nugget of truth:

Some trees look smaller when they're on a mountainside then they do when you try to fit them in the living room.

Also, we're hoping forest service officials won't dust the stump for fingerprints because we may have lopped off more than the designated amount.  Whatever.  Let's not split hairs.

Let's just say there was pruning going on.

Eventually, we got the tree whittled down to Redwood size and set up.  The lights went on!  The gold beads went on!  All the ornaments (all 2134897.5497) of them went on!  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care!  I in my kerchief and Dad in his cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap (or a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond).

Then it happened.  I walked by our Christmas tree.  We'll never know if my pajama hem brushed the branches or if I breathed too heavily or if a cold north wind was blowing through a window, but suddenly -

         * crrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak *

I found myself being leaned upon like Lucy by Joe Junior in While You Were Sleeping.

The tree fell into my arms.  Or to be more precise, my hair.
Luckily, I broke its fall with my 5'3" body.  I'm sacrificial like that.  Also, I have a kid who faints so I'm accustomed to holding out my arms at a moments notice and catching things.

I yell for my handsome prince and he comes running.  We push the tree back up.  We try nailing fishing line to the wall - an old trick used by cave men and their Christmas trees - but we only have the world's smallest and most ineffective nails and the line slips right off.  Plus, the weight of our tree snaps the line anyway.  Then we realize our tree stand is busted.  This explains some things.  Like why the tree tried to kill me.  So in order to go to the store and buy a replacement stand we had to do something so dreadful I don't even want to talk about it here...
we had to undecorate the tree in the same day we decorated it.
Then we went and bought a new stand.  We splurged for the $19.97 one and not the crummy, deadly $7.97 one.
Then we came home and started over.
Two years later, we had our Christmas tree.

It was worth it.  Even if I had to take three separate photos to show you the full tree due to its size.

Tree and Elf.

This is the same expression I had on my face when the tree tried to murder me.

Our angel topper is dwarfed by the behemoth branches.  She also may or may not have a terrified expression on her face.  She doesn't get out much.

Just photos

Looky!  Crescent rolls!  As far as the eyes can see!  As many as your belly can hold, plus two!

Three strange woodland creatures I met in the woods.  Hence, the woodland creatures...living in the woods...

Also, one small ninja.

And his mom.

I hope the park ranger doesn't fingerprint the stump we left that may have been slightly, just a little, a tad, a smidge, above 12 inches.  Ahem.

The hunters bringing home their kill tree.

Hold up for the ninja who was wearing last year's snow boots and couldn't walk fast.  Also, he needed a sandwich.

"Look, Mom!  I'm on a car! Don't I look good on a car?  Can I have a car?  Can I drive the car?  Can I borrow the car keys?  See you later, can I have them please?"

Sittin' on top of the world...lookin' down on creation...


Why is everything a song with me?


There is a story about the Christmas tree.  But I have to wait another day or two before I can laugh about it.  I'm still wincing.  Also, I can't walk by without PTSD flashbacks and thinking it's going to fall my head.  So...yeah.  Later.  First I must bask in the glow of 400 mini lights.


*contented sigh*

Christmas trees

A mere 1.47 minutes on the road... didja know the wind blows in Wyoming?


"Hey, Andy, ya want me to lean on a shovel or something?"




Small men-children with sticks. What could possibly go wrong?




Uh-oh. Hansel realizes he forgot the bread crumbs.

Oops. Put this one in twice.

I cut up small, toddler sized pieces of turkey for the Moose. He hollered, "BIG CHICKEN!" cuz he wanted the drumstick. What baby wants, baby gets. Come to Papa, big chicken, come to Papa.

If you're impressed at my sudden photography skillz, it was Mrs Kohler's camera.

Last week was our annual Christmas tree hunting, stalking, butchering, expedition to the North Pole. It just isn't Christmas until near death experiences have been lived, tempers have flared, marriage vows have been stretched and re-thought, small children have cried, and my Charlie Brown tree is safely kerplunked in my living room. For those of you who enjoy killing the spirit of Christmas and making Baby Jesus cry by purchasing a plastic tree, I will pray for you. But golly, you are missing out! Only a few things went wrong this year:

We nearly ran out of gas. Halfway to Mt Crumpit we have to make the decision: push forward, put in the last dollars out of our checking account, or turn back for the company car. Anna's oh-so helpful suggestion? Why doesn't Daddy just go back and get the other car? Yeah, Daddy! Why don't you just walk 30 miles and return in a speedy fashion? Maybe you could bring a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer while you're at it?

We nearly slid on ice to our deaths. Ok, not really. But it was hilarious when Mike pulled over and rolled down his window to talk to the Kohlers who were in their car and they kept driving right by us. "Hey! Stop driving!" my exasperated husband shouts. "We're not driving!" Genesis yells back as she hangs out the window, "We're sliding!"

I can't speak for anyone else, but I nearly got lost. There is a fine, thin line in the forest, between I-know-where-I-am, and I-am-fairly-certain-that-I-can-retrace-my-steps, and I-suddenly-hear-nothing-but-the-wind-in-the-trees, and if-I-go-one-more-step-I-will-officially-and-utterly-be-lost-and-on-the-five-o'clock-news. And I don't like being on camera. I freeze. I don't even like speaking when there's more than three people around. Even if all I have to say is my name and where I live, I panic. Those are easy questions. I should know the answers without getting all clammy. I really don't want to be interviewed about being dumb enough to get lost in the woods of Laramie while searching for a Christmas tree.

Afterwards we learned that there apparently is a small RedBull stand manned by Christmas elves in the forest. This is the only explanation for the two feminine youngsters who had absolutely NO energy for tree hunting and whined approximately, oh I don't know, THE WHOLE TIME, and yet were bouncing off the seats of the minivan like mexican jumping beans the whole drive home while their little brother was trying to nap. Actually, I'll give it up for Anna - she came wandering around the mountain side right as I was navigating that fine, thin line I was telling you about and quite possibly saved me from certain starvation, exposure, and being eaten by wild bears. Together we sawed down our tree and kept each other from back flipping and somersaulting and triple axle-ing down the hillsides. The only excuse I have for Cora is that she must be on the verge of teendom or something because that kid sleeps for like, 12 hours at a time, eats like a lumberjack, and still complains of being tired.

Now the tree is up and Christmas can begin. The cards are almost ready to be picked up at WalMart. The shopping is...not even started. Our eleventh anniversary is next week. I'm getting a taste of what it's like to have four children as I babysit the Quinnster for a whole week (stay tuned for what I hope is gonna be some Kodak moments this week). Jobs are being applied for and sent off into cyberspace where they're never heard from again. Holiday movies are organized by importance and order of viewing. Santa letters have brought unbelievably adorable joy to the small kids faces. School is on the back burner as we do crafty holiday things instead (who cares if my kids become adults who can't balance their checkbooks, they can thread a sewing machine and make chocolate truffles)! If you want a Christmas card of my cute offspring to stick to your fridge all year 'round, make sure you send me your address.

Thanksgiving

When hubby-mine heard I was planning on posting photographic evidence of his gift of procrastination, he rushed out back and remedied the situation. Awww, the naivete. The shot had been captured minutes before.




I'm considering turning it into this year's Christmas card.


But let's focus on this week's holiday first. Happy Thanksgiving! I'm shamed by every one's Facebook statuses that only say what they're thankful for everyday this month, while mine focus on things less humble and contrite. So, here goes my "A thankful heart is a happy heart" list, all in one lump sum:

I'm thankful for my family. For my extended family, who are all crazy quacks and I love them for it. They're all quirky in their own special ways and contribute to the goodness of this world, sure enough. For my mom's Christmas traditions, my dad's patient humor, my sister's loyalty and all around dorkiness. My niece's abilities to make me laugh on the phone, especially Al. Kary tries not to talk to me. My brothers who I barely know, really, but I love them because it's good to know I have a couple of 6'4" hulks on my side should I ever need 'em. I'm grateful for my in-laws and their willingness to take us in in case of homelessness. For my brothers-in-laws and sisters-in-laws and their senses of humor; all unique and all...weird, just the way I like 'em.

I'm thankful for my own little family. Mine, mine, mine! I don't know why, but I felt the need to rub that in. They're so darn cute I could eat them alive. Because it's not the season for cannibalism however I will just nibble a neck whenever they least expect it. I'm thankful for my husband whom I never get tired of. Really! Not a lot of people married this long could say that. Well, ok, when I walk by last year's Christmas tree still attached to the base in November of the following year, I may roll my eyes. A little. But it's a loving eye roll.

I'm thankful for my friends. I have the best friends ever. Mariah's heart on her sleeve, Genesis' taste in movies, Tawni's nutty boys, Jennifer's ability to tune out the football game with me, Lorna's example in general life, Heather B. for all the memories we share of a crazy decade, Aerie for even more memories and the only one who knew me as a pigtailed whipper snapper. My Wyoming buddies have been great too: they stocked my freezer with antelope and elk, forced me into MOPS, watched my kids, and shared their government money with me (which we totally spent on beer and cigarettes! Ha, kidding).

I'm thankful for cars that run, jobs (boy, I'd love the chance to be thankful for that one again here any second now), homeschooling so I don't miss a second of anything in my kid's lives, expensive coffee and cheap wine (because I homeschool...see how that comes full circle?), date nights, snuggles, a roof over our heads, books, holiday movies, parents who taught me the love of Christ so that I in turn could teach my children, online book clubs (see? my great friends strike again!), a full fridge even if it's only full for a second before ravenous ankle biters rip the door off the hinges and go all grizzly bear on the contents, a nibble of dark chocolate every now and again, Bon Jovi in February - squeal! - walks to the park, Sadie's recovery, all of our health, NOT being a Radio Shack widow on Black Friday and every other blessed day of the year, and hundreds of other things. And comments on the blog. I'm thankful for those of you who leave 'em. As for the rest of you slugs...

Happy Thanksgiving, my peeps!