Cutting Our Own Tree

On the first weekend of December, we drove an hour to a Christmas tree farm in the hills, with our two kids and a borrowed saw. We'd always bought our trees from a parking lot. This year, the kids wanted to cut one down themselves.

The farm was beautiful: rows and rows of firs and spruces on a hillside, with a light dusting of snow. There was a barn with hot cider, a wagon pulled by a tractor and a man dressed as Santa who was clearly the farmer's brother.

We walked for an hour looking for the perfect tree. My son wanted the biggest one on the farm. My daughter wanted a small, crooked one she said "needed a family." We had a long family negotiation. The crooked one won.

My husband lay on his back in the snow and sawed while the kids cheered. It fell over gently. We dragged it back to the wagon together, singing. It's in our living room now, a little bent, covered in homemade ornaments. It's the best tree we've ever had.