Before I even begin to tell the story, take a look. Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system.
No, the picture doesn’t cut off the top. That’s an eight-foot ceiling. The top of the tree was trimmed by my 18 year old because “It didn’t fit, Mom.”
Behold: the Kent family Christmas tree, pandemic style.
Grab a cup fo coffee, tea, cocoa, whisky, whatever – and settle in for this story.
It is quite the story.
I’ve been very open about the fact that my family of five is a soup of autoimmune conditions, and so we’ve been super locked down since March 2020. The issue of a Christmas tree came up, and we figured we’d go to one of the stands we’ve gone to for YEARS, and buy one. Easy peasy, right? They’re outdoor, easy to stay distant, etc.
But then my middle child told me his new school (he’s a high school senior who had to change schools this final year) has a tradition: the seniors go into the woods and cut down the school Christmas tree. He’s doing remote learning, but they Facetimed him in.
He wanted to cut a Christmas tree from our woods.
I don’t know about your experience, but how often does an 18 year old enthusiastically offer to do ANYTHING these days? So I said yes, of course – and that was that.
I thought.
On Monday, he came to me right before the Facetime call with a concern: his phone signal didn’t go far into the woods around our home. He wanted permission to cut down a tree closer to the house. I found the PERFECT tree, but it was slightly out of range.
Then he pointed to the ugly scraggly tree in the middle of a patch of rocks, at the bottom of a hill in front of our house. It looked like a Truffula tree from Dr. Seuss. No nice triangle shape – oh, no. A big, fat bush atop a long, skinny trunk about 8 feet before the branches began.
“You sure?” I asked.
“It’s the best choice,” he said, sharpening the ax.
Ok, then. Fat tree it would be.
An hour after the call, my son came inside, exhausted.
“Chopping down a tree is HARD.”
“Yep. Where is it?”
“In the yard.”
“Are you bringing it in?”
“I will. I just need a break.”
Anyone who parents older teens knows that “need a break” is code for “need to disappear into the black hole of my room for eight hours and play video games and eat junk food.”
Which is exactly what happened.
On Tuesday, he got Clark, and they dragged the tree into the garage. Clark found me.
“You picked THAT tree?”
“Hey! Don’t blame me!”
Clark shook his head. “It’s like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, only uglier.”
On Wednesday, the tree was still in the garage. We had a huge snowstorm coming, and we needed to fit cars in the garage. My 18 year old (we’ll call him R), said, “I don’t think the tree will fit up the stairs.”
Clark gave me a snarky look. “It always fits.”
R managed to get the tree into the family room, and with my oldest kid’s help, they set it up in the tree stand. R said the top of the tree was bent at the ceiling, so he trimmed the top branches (see them on the floor in the picture?).
I came downstairs, saw the tree, and promptly had a wheezing laughing fit, the kind where your stomach muscles spasm. Poor R thought I was mad. Poor Clark came running upstairs, hollering, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I laughed until I cried.
I declared our tree The Pandemic Tree. if 2020 had a tree, it would be this monstrosity.
And I love it.
Now, R never reads my books. What he doesn’t know is that in Shopping for a Yankee Swap, there’s an extended chapter involving Jason’s love for a certain tree, and the extremes a mild-mannered man will go to in pursuit of a goal. You’ll have to read it to understand.
I went into the garage to get something, and found a bird’s nest in there, clearly from the tree. Sorry, bird. We hope there aren’t any surprise squirrels in there, too.
It’ll look better decorated (we’re doing that later today. We got 14 inches of snow on Thursday, so we’re still digging out).
But this morning, our 11 year old looked at the tree and declared, “It is joyful!”
Yes. It is, indeed.
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