I grew up going to the tree farm with my two brothers and sister and mom and dad.  We all piled into our 1990 black Silverado edition Suburban, a vehicle roughly the size of a tank.  We drove for an hour (which felt like a really long time to kids) or more to arrive at a tree farm.  We piled out, sometimes into frigid air and sometimes into muggy warm air.  You never know in North Texas. *I am a native Dallasite.*  We set off on foot after taking a hay ride into the field of trees.  We’d all discuss the merits of each tree, and if it was one we thought we might take home, one of the boys would shed an article of clothing and place it on the tree, marking it as ours.  We’d continue to traipse around until our blood sugar was low and tempers were getting high, then we’d decide on one (if we could find the one with the orange beenie… or was it the yellow glove?).  My dad would put his leather gloves on, get down on his stomach/side, and start sawing the tree down.  We celebrated with petting some animals, a Dairy Queen blizzard or a hot apple cider, depending on the weather, and take that bad boy home.  My dad would continue to shave off some of the stump until it would fit in our living room, in the bay window that overlooked the entire street.  Mom would wrap it with lights, and then we’d all get out our ornaments to decorate.

That’s what I grew up with.  I loved it.  Thanks Mom and Dad.  I picture that same scene for my own family.

But I keep saying, “Next year, when S can remember it.”

I don’t need to tell you how easy, clean, and maintenance free a fake tree is, do I?  (sigh)  I hope I’m not completely ruined for the tree farm, because the tree farm is special.

Here is the Knox tree for 2010… maybe 2011 will be the year of the real tree…

*Don’t be sad for us because our stockings are hung on the TV console, the real stockings are hanging with care over the fireplace in the living room.