My family always had a real Christmas tree when I was growing up. As long as I can remember (and indeed, before I remember- there are photos to prove it), I’ve gone out with my dad to cut down a Christmas tree. I love real Christmas trees. They fill the house with a Christmassy smell for the whole month, and no matter how hard I squint my eyes, I just can’t get behind the plastic ones (although much to my dismay, I have had to get a small one for my apartment as I am not allowed real trees- bah, humbug). So a real tree it must be. And still, as a kinda-sorta-fully-fledged adult, I go back home for the annual Christmas tree slaughter.
We embarked on our mission on a sunny Wednesday, the first time I remember it being sunny for the hunt in at least a decade. In the past, we’ve waded through puddles, battled wind and snow, and still gotten a tree. We went to the place we’ve been going to for several years now, a little farm down on 16th Avenue in Aldergrove. U-cut, of course, he has two large fields full of beautiful, lush Christmas trees ripe for the picking. So, we took our hand saw and went hunting, walking back and forth between the fields before finally finding one that was just right (and that my mom wouldn’t think was too big).
In my Mackage coat, which I basically live in in the winter.
Good shape, not too many holes, flat side to go against the wall, and sturdy enough branches to support our many ornaments. A solid 10/10.
And then the decorating began. Christmas music playing in the background, I sifted through my parents’ extensive collection of ornaments that have been collected in their travels, given to them by friends and family, and homemade, each one holding the memories of Christmasses past.
Much love and happy holidays to you!