We got our Christmas tree this weekend. This is always an “event” in our family. My mother and I are known to drag our poor spouses and children around for hours, no matter the weather, making them give up hats, a mitten here, a glove there, to tag potential trees. It must be a certain type of tree with a certain smell and a certain kind of needle. (I got a blue spruce for Christmas one year, it was beautiful with clear lights but I had to decorate it with leather gloves on!) When house shopping, the first thing we look at when entering a home is how high the ceilings are, ya know…for the Christmas tree. Or when visiting someone else’s house it is a great compliment if we tell you, “Wow, you could put a huge Christmas tree in here.” We are the Tannenbaum Queens.
Anyway Possums, I’m off track here. This is where we get our Christmas trees now that I have moved to PA. And as you can see by the sign (clicky to make biggie) we are apparently real people. Whew, well that’s a relief, I’d been wondering.
We get a frasier because unfortunately Pennsylvania can’t grow Balsams. The Monkey was insistent that she pull the sled.
She did alright but petered out towards then end and Dad took over.
He’s our hero
So this whole Christmas tree thing is quite the ordeal, first you put it on a machine that shakes the beheebies right out of it…and the dead needles as well.
Then you put it on this machine, make sure it’s centered then flip a switch and it drills a perfectly straight hole in the bottom of the trunk.
Then you are exhausted from all of this so you stop and pet the doggie by the roaring outdoor fireplace.
And at last they wrap your tree up and carry it to your car.
After we got our tree we went to one of our favorite restaurants for soup and sandwiches and headed home. Who do you think we saw in downtown traffic just a car or two ahead of us? Hmmm.