Neither Trent nor I had ever bought a Christmas tree before now.
This amazing, skinny little thing that a burly young man will strap onto the top of your car with a ball of twine he keeps in his pocket.
A mixed cluster of gentlemen sit with hands extended towards an industrial-sized heater glowing orange and a sign with various prices and state taxes looms above. A poster advertising that tips are "greatly appreciated" is tacked to the side of a running motor home.
We make small talk about the tree farm in Montana where they're from, and he makes a joke about his long commute.
At home, I watch A Christmas Story while I wrangle lengths of lights awkwardly around thin branches. In a terrible moment of misjudgment, I cut off the towery tip. As soon as I do it, I realize that the top was the whole reason why I loved it in the first place.
It's now in our living room in a tight spot where we swore there couldn't possibly be enough room. It drinks a lot of water and it makes my home smell like a pine forest.