Every Christmas, we get together with a bunch of neighbours for a christmas tree hunt at a local tree farm, accompanied by assorted kids and dogs. The trees are chosen, cut, and transported back to the neighbourhood, where they are dropped off at each garage. It used to be, that we would gather for brunch at one house, and then all set off to watch the menfolk set up the individual trees in each house. Drinks would be poured, snacks eaten, and the placing of each tree critiqued. By the time the last tree was set in place, there would be a decided slant to it, and the kids would have dropped off, tired and bored.
In recent years, as kids grew up, dogs died, and marriages fell by the wayside, the number of households was reduced to three, and the pattern of events became a rolling brunch, starters and drinks at House A, main course and more drinks at House B, and dessert and yet more drinks at House C. The men also made inroads into the single malt as they prepped and set the trees in place. One thing did not change; the last tree was a lot less straight than the first.
This year, with no kids, no time, and differing opinions on what type of trees to get, we all went our own way. Which is why the First Husband and I were driving around in the rain and sleet on Wednesday, cursing as we tried to remember where the bloody tree farm is. So much for the holiday spirit. We did eventually find the farm and get the tree, which we decorated last night, with the help of No 1 Stepdaughter, the only one of our three kids who has chosen a university close to home.
Every year, I look at the trees of my friends and neighbours and wonder how they do it. They look so beautiful, with their colours and themes, while mine looks as if I opened a box of decorations and threw them at it. And no matter how hard I try, I can never get enough lights on the damn’ thing, although the FH thinks there are far too many, claiming the house will burn down one of these years.
Why do we bother? Partly because this is my chance of payback for a summer spent sailing. Every year, at some point in our cruise, I declare “I’m never setting foot on this @#$%&! boat again!” And every December, regular as clockwork, the FH is heard to swear “I’m never putting these @#$%&*! lights up again!” Revenge is sweet.
And, if you turn off all the main lights, and squinch up your eyes, the tree does look rather nice.