Christmas trees are some of my favorite things on earth. I remember as a little kid in the red-panel rental house where I grew up (in the back end of the valley, by the rodeo grounds) my bedroom was right by the living room where we kept the tree, so every night during December I would watch the reflections of the colored lights blinking on and off against my door, lulling me to sleep. I love the way Christmas trees smell, and our old quirky collection of ornaments and the popcorn strings and Dad putting the star on top. Taking down a Christmas tree is like a funeral and I never want to be there when it happens.
This year we bought a license from the Forestry Service to cut down our own tree from the National Forest. We drove down bad roads for a long piece until we came to the top of the mountain, where the prettiest silvertip pines grow. It was sunny in the valley, but up there it was snowy and colder than you would think California could be.
Note our intrepid drivers, and the boys who decided to take off their shirts on top of the 6500 ft mountain.
And that is how we got this year’s tree.
