Tom took out the Christmas tree today. For the first time in five years, we'll be on time for curbside pick up. Generally we wait until right around Easter.
I feel terrible about it. We have betrayed our tree. I strive to make sure the tree knows it did not die for short-term frivolity. But Tom isn't a big fan of my Long Haul Three Months of Tree Plan. He whipped our poor conifer outside in a very stealthy fashion. The only reason I figured out what he'd been up to was the conspicuous and lengthy trail of pine needles.
Sometimes I think about not getting a tree at all, but then I drive by one of the roadside stands on Christmas Eve and see all the homeless trees forlornly lined up out there under the cold grey sky. Condemned to die without ever completing their mission. We have to save at least one tree from such a woebegone fate! Plus they smell really good.
So we wait until the last minute and take home one of the orphan trees. We decorate it and say nice things about it and hope it feels fulfilled when it realizes its days of service have come to an end and we're going to put it out with the trash.