As I have mentioned before, we go to what is basically a hardscrabble farm in the hills with some trees planted around the house to get our tree--15 dollars to cut your own, 20 for a pre-cut one. The past couple of years we've just grabbed one of the pre-cut trees they lean against the picnic table in the front, extra five bucks be damned.
Big spenders, that's us.
This year, however, since Cubby was with us we decided to wander around so he could run around and play some. And then we thought, since he's such a fan of tools and since we found a nice tree still in the ground, A. would cut our tree so Cubby could watch him use the saw.
Fun for all!
First of all, the people that own the place have acquired chickens (chuk-uhs, to Cubby). And no boring old tree is going to compete with chuk-uhs. Especially since these little hens were quite obviously accustomed to getting food from people and ran right up to us when we got out of the car. And followed us part of the way to the trees.
They did not, however, follow us all the way, and when we tried to bring Cubby to the trees after a play session with the chickens, he was not so pleased with the re-direct. He was also not very pleased about the fact that he wasn't allowed to hold the saw that A. was using to cut the tree.
He was momentarily appeased by the massive truck with some kind of hydraulic hoist on it or something that was sitting outside the barn, but then, once again, not too happy about being removed from it to get back in our car.
Sorry, kid. We don't live here, and I don't think the nice man who is trying to work on this truck really wants us to hang out all day.
So, all in all, it was maybe not the making-Norman-Rockwell-memories experience it might have been, but we got our tree. Mission accomplished.