When the kids were younger (much younger!), when the second Saturday in December rolled around, our neighbor would take Phil and the older kids out to his son’s woods to cut down a Christmas tree.
In normal years, the weather in central Maine was still nice, at least considering it was wintertime. We usually didn’t have much snow yet and while it was cold, it wasn’t frigid. Walking in the woods was easy and it was nice enough that the kids didn’t whine about being cold during the hour or so it took to find a tree, cut it, and drag it back to the truck.
One year wasn’t normal; instead of turning sharply colder after Christmas, frigid weather came in with December. The day they went to the woods to get a tree, it was below zero. The highs had been below zero for a week. We bundled the older kids up and Phil and John took them to pick out the tree.
They didn’t go far. It was cold and Phil decided the top one of the first trees he found would be perfect. The only problem? The part they wanted was about 8 feet up. Phil cut the top off and the frozen tree tumbled to the ground… and broke.
The branches on the side that hit the ground all broke off. Phil was cold, the kids were cold, and they just wanted to get out of the cold. So they brought the tree home.
John said if I didn’t like it, he’d take Phil out to get another tree, but it was too cold to subject anyone to the task, so I it was fine, we’d slide it up against the wall, no one would see the flat side.
In all honesty, it was nice because didn’t take up much floor space.
And it gives us something to reminisce about years later.