The Christmas Tree
Tightly squashed like sardines my family and I travel back to my childhood in thirty simple minutes. The sunshine tickles my eyelids through the salt- stained window. Bing Crosby chimes in his monotone voice singing, "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas", setting the mood. His voice is like a familiar calling that Christmas is near.
Bundled in our scratchy layers of insulation reminds me of deep sea diving. Pine sap and burning wood greet my nose, as we reach our destination. Hand-in-hand and piggy back rides for the younger kids fails to contain their instinctual excitement. Squirming to the sample trees we always argue over a white pine or a 'spruce, and we always end up with the same tree.
In the distance I can hear the rhythmic jingles of the bells on the giant Clydesdales with red, satin ribbons tied to their manes. The horses' sweat glimmers in the sunlight. We climb onto the old carriage with hay bails as temporary seats. Being pulled around the crooked paths up to the tree lot I brace myself from falling over in my great excitement.
When we finally reach the green dotted, snowy hills, the race to find the perfect tree has begun! I have yet to win in my 17 years, but I can feel that this is my year! We run around marking possible candidates to set in our living room with sacrificing our own warmth with garments from our own bodies. A scarf here, a glove there. Finally, like a lieutenant checking cleanliness we critique the trees with high standards. "'No, this one is too bare in the...