Sunday was Christmas tree day, so after breakfast we hiked up to the spot above the cabin where we usually cut a tree and Himself chose this one. “Isn’t it kind of big?” I asked. “No,” he said. “It should be about an eight footer.” I’d been kind of looking at scrawnier trees, feeling a little overwhelmed by the whole tree thing, but he was right, it was a really pretty shape.
It was heavy, and Himself was valiant dragging it downhill to the car (20 minutes or so? I’m bad at estimating distances). I wish the pine cones hadn’t all fallen off, because they were lovely, but alas, that was unavoidable. We got it on the car, and once home, I managed to tip it off, tie up the branches so I had a hope of getting it in the door, and drag it to the front of the house. I had to cut nearly two feet off the bottom, and even then it fit with about a quarter inch to spare (there’s a big brown streak on my ceiling from the tree two years ago … must repaint).
Here it is, in all its glory — must be nearly six feet wide. Someone thinks it’s “overdecorated” but I think it’s positively minimalist. It was a pleasant way to spend Sunday, watching Netflix movies and decorating the tree … and if only blogs had smell-o-vision. It smells divine.