“That one looks good, Jim.” Mum said to Dad.

“It’s not bushy enough.” Dad replied.

“It’s the right height.”

“Not bushy.”

I sat quietly in the back seat. Mum and Dad drove along a rutted, dirt road, arguing over tree-after-tree. It was a yearly ritual.

“There’s one!” Mum pointed to the left.

“Where?” Dad asked.

“Right there, next to that big rock.”

“It’s too tall.”

“Cut it shorter!”

“Ethel, it’s too tall.” Dad argued back.

My impatience grew. “Let’s just pick one.” I thought to myself. I’d spent months dreaming about the toys in the Sears catalogue. I wanted our tree. It didn’t matter what it looked like. The faster we got a tree, the faster Santa would come.

“How about that one?” Dad said.

“I don’t know.” Mum hesitated.

We got out of the car. I followed Mum and Dad up the side of a snowy hill. “Looks good to me,” Dad said.

Mum walked around to the other side. “It’s a little bare in the back.” She stared at it. “I guess we could turn that side to the wall. No one will notice.”

Dad got the saw, cut it down, and stuffed it into the trunk.

“Yes!” I cheered to myself. “Christmas was here.” Dad mounted the tree on the stand and dragged it into the house. With Mum’s direction, he got it on the box in the corner.

“Turn it the other way,” Mum Said. “I can see the bare spot.” Dad turned the tree. “A little more.” He turned it again. “I guess that will do. Christmas cards will hide the bad spots.”

Then the words I knew would come were spoken. “We should have got the other one.”

“It was too tall!” Dad said.

KEEP READING>>>>

(Original post by Michael Smith)

(photo by stock.xchng)