This past weekend, we drove across county lines to chop down a tree. Well I shouldn’t say chop, more saw. I always feel a little horrid when we take the saw teeth to the trunk of a tree (I’m a strong advocate of fake trees), and visits to the “tree farm” always remind me of those lobsters that you see sitting in tanks in a restaurant. Of course, the Christmas/holiday thing has never really been my thing (the Santa fiasco of ’79 ruined me), and so I leave things like decorating and trees to my sweet. He loves a real tree, and he swears that Bosley, our sensitive pooch, gets very excited and knows that Christmas is just around the corner when we bring the tree home. (My thoughts are the smell of the real tree reminds him that a visit to Grandma and Grumpies is close.)
This year, we selected a very fine tree, and while it was sentenced to death by our choice, it is being loved. Of course, the pooches are always interested to see what Chris is doing with the tree, and for some reason the lights always fascinate Colby (as they move along the ground). Once the tree was completed (well near completed), we forced the boys to sit in front of the damn thing. They refused to smile, as you can see in the picture. Colby looks like I’m not sure what. We do have some modifications to make to the tree, but I think we are going to keep it fairly simple this year.
I’m looking forward to returning to Gilmer this year for the holidays, as it is rather peaceful there (apart from the occasional gunshot).