Throughout my whole entire childhood, we always got our Christmas tree on my birthday, December 21. That was our tradition.
We’d go out to the bush with Mom and Dad, walk around checking out the trees, argue over who found a better one and then Dad would cut it down.
Of course, one of my sisters or I would set our sights on a huge, epic, Times Square type of tree but Dad would only laugh and then proceed to cut down the Charlie Brown version of that.
He’d drag it back to the truck, parked on the side of the road, and we’d take it home and set it up.
They were not the prettiest of trees. Not much more than five feet tall, the branches were sparse and the needles already fluffing off as he carried it into the house.
The last time I remember driving those few miles east from my parents farm, where the fields end and the trees begin, was maybe my Grade 12 year in high school.
Dad told my younger sister Gena and I to go, just the two of us and bring home the tree. So I drove us out there and parked my Dad’s F150 on the side of the road. Gena and I ventured into the bush on foot looking for the tree of our dreams.
I don’t recall it being much of a prize and on the way home, it blew out of the back of the truck. It must’ve had no weight to it and was half dead before we even sawed it off.
We pulled over, busting a gut laughing, and picked our prized tree out of the ditch. There were broken off branches and millions of needles laying in the snow where we picked it up. We carried on home with it.
Nothing a whole lot of tinsel couldn’t fix.
bloom.planted.north 
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