The great Christmas tree escapade.

Following old family traditions, Richard and I decided to wait until Christmas Eve day to put up our Christmas tree. That means I was out trekking through the back forty this morning looking for the perfect tree.

Although we have many trees, a Christmas tree farm we are not. I searched and searched and searched. Finally, up a hill with a steep embankment behind it, I saw the ideal evergreen. I trampled up the hill only to discover, alas, it wasn’t the tree of my dreams. But there, at the top of the cliff was the king o’Christmas trees. There was even a downed log I could use to climb up the precipice. About half way up the 10’ climb, it suddenly dawned on me why the tree was down. It was dead and rotting. It gave way. I fell backwards.

As I was tumbling down the grade, ass over teakettle, I was thinking to myself, “Self, this isn’t your finest hour!” It is amazing how things go in slow motion when you are sure they are your final moments. I lay on the forest floor, wondering how long it would be before Richard became aware I wasn’t coming back of my own volition. I swear to god there was a chipmunk about three yards from me laughing like a hyena. I wiggled the fingers on my left hand; they worked. My right hand also was functioning, as were my toes. Before you know it I was back on my feet and staggering home.

There in a bramble about four feet from the edge of our front “lawn”, was a tree. Not great, but overly passable. The poor bastard now sets in our front room!