Oh, Christmas Tree

I've been off the past few days - a mini vacation of sorts. 

I'm practicing retirement.

I started Christmas shopping and found a few things for the kids and little man O. I found a couple gifts for some friends.

And I found a warm, cozy sweater, a thick turtleneck, three wooden holiday signs, some lovely note cards, a pretty braided iPhone cable, Christmas flannel sheets, and a birch Luminara candle for myself.

I've been very good this year, Santa.

After all that shopping, I was a bit tired, plus my knees hurt. I was all banged up.

First thing in the morning, I was walking in to a store and trying to connect my key ring to the lanyard that's attached inside my handbag. I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking. I thought I was walking over the part of the curb that is flush with the road for wheelchair access. 

Nope.

I was walking into the curb.

I hit the curb with the tip of my sneaker and BAM! I was on my knees before I could say, "Oh!"

I took the brunt of the fall on my knees and palms. My handbag was splayed out in front of me, contents scattered everywhere. I yelped, "Ow! That hurt!" and then looked around to see if anyone had seen me tumble. I gathered up all my belongings and got slowly to my feet, picking gravel out of my palms and limping into the store.

I scraped up my left knee pretty bad and my right knee has a fist sized bruise along the inside. Ouch. I still don't know how my left knee could be all bloodied up but I didn't put a hole in my jeans.

One of life's mysteries, I guess.

By late afternoon I was sore and ready for home. I took a roundabout way back and found a Christmas tree farm on a back country road. 

I pulled over and got my big lens out.

I love pine trees.

When we were kids, my mom and dad would bundle us all up and take us out to get the Christmas tree. 

Every year we went to the same place. And we always had to get a blue spruce. Of course the blue spruce trees were planted the farthest out in the fields and we had to walk miles to get to them. At least it seemed like miles. It was probably a few hundred feet.

We would wander around, checking out all sides of any tree my mom would pick out, making sure there were no empty or flat spots on it. Once we found the perfect tree, we would tag it and leave.

Literally. 

We would put a tag on it with our name and then we would leave. We never took it home the same day. We weren't the only ones who did this. There would be lots of tags on the trees in the fields. I have no idea why we couldn't take it home the same day. But we would tag it and then come back the following weekend or two later and cut it down. 

After we found it again. 

Sometimes it took a little while to remember where we found it the first time, and by little while, I mean a long while. It always seemed colder the second day, sometimes it would be snowing.  Once we found the tree, my sister and I would have to stand and hold the tree while my dad sawed it off at the base. It was prickly and hurt our hands. Those needles went through crocheted mittens like a hot knife through butter.

Once it was cut down, Dad would drag it through the fields and somehow get it into the trunk of the car and tie it down. I don't remember that part at all. I think I skedaddled into the warm car as soon as I could.

After being outside in the cold air, we would fall asleep in the back of the car on the way home. Cozy and loved, with the promise of Christmas ahead of us.

Good memories.