I'm addicted -- to a tree. I admit it. About three years ago, my family and I went to the local Christmas tree farm like we do every year. It became a family tradition when we moved back to the Deep South from Houston, Texas. We go every year on a cold afternoon, cut a tree, stop at Starbucks for cocoa, and come home to decorate. It's an occasion my kids anticipate every year, and I have to admit, I do too. Anywho.
About three years ago, we noticed a row of trees near the ones we were inspecting for possible chopping. We had passed over every fir we found, none of the cypress's would do, and yet we needed a tree. And there, just across the way, was the oddest tree we'd ever seen. It wasn't exactly green, more like a greenish gray. The needles weren't straight, more twisted and densely packed. And when you brushed against it -- the most intense cinnamon-evergreen scent that's ever met my nose. It was beautiful. I had to have one!
Our mystery tree is an Arizona Cypress, so they tell me. I don't care. I just know it "makes" Christmas for me. The scent, the beauty. Last year, when I was struggling with shoulder pain (and ended up with surgery days before Christmas), the tree even looked beautiful with no ornaments. We stuck clumps of velvety red poinsettias and these lime-green sparkly twigs in strategic places and called it good. And the tree was still a beauty.
So, this year I'm sitting in my living room watching the white lights twinkle on my awesome tree, smelling the fresh scent filling the house, and enjoying the anticipation of the season. Now if only we had some snow...
UPDATE! We got the ornaments on! Isn't she pretty?