Every year we chop our own tree. We had real trees in our home occasionally whilst I was growing up, but we never felled them ourselves. It’s a family tradition now and every year we head out with our old saw and gloves to find our perfect spruce. The mister usually cuts it down and we all have a little saw to join in.
This year when we arrived, we were given the bad news that most of the trees had been destroyed by some pest – but that we were welcome to go and look around. At first glance, the fields looked empty – but there were many tiny, perfect little trees hiding in the grasses.
The boys decided they would like a little tree for their bedroom instead of the artificial one they usually have. Small trees mean small trunks – and Jensen Indiana was overjoyed. The chopping of his own tree! They hunted for a bushy one that would hold lots of ornaments and decorations.
Saw in hand, under Dadda’s careful instruction, he worked away. The tiny tree began to fall, and soon we were clapping as he felled his first ever Christmas tree, alone.
Our firstborn took his job incredibly seriously, full of anticipation of the moment he could call out, “timber!”
Someone else, someone covered in mud, was content to watch and eat yoghurt raspberries.
Dadda was pretty proud too. Our boy is growing up.
He chose it, cut it and carried it all of the way to the car – around a quarter of a mile. He even had it netted by the lovely owner of the farm…who let him have his tree for free, because it was his first chop, and because it’s Christmas. I’m not sure I’ve heard that phrase used in a long, long time.
One boy and his tree. Her name is Ruby. I couldn’t be more proud. Merry Christmas.