We are lucky that, close to where we live, there is a forest where they produce trees for Christmas. Traditionally, my husband would take our daughters up to the forest to choose a Christmas tree for us, while I stayed at home and raided the garden for sprigs of holly and tendrils of ivy to decorate the house with. They would usually be gone an hour or two, spending plenty of time finding the ‘right’ tree – not too tall, not too small, good shape, with no awkward sticky out branches, and bushy right to the top, it also had to be one of the type that doesn’t drop needles all over the house, so they were pretty picky, but they’d always come home with a perfect specimen wedged in the car. They’d demand hot chocolate to warm themselves up before we set about covering said specimen in so many baubles and lights that you could barely see it anyway. We always, always, had Christmas music playing and would sing along in loud discordance with tinsel around our necks and baubles hanging from our ears.
The girls can’t get home to choose the tree these days, so me and my husband trek to the forest together. We went last Friday, and for some reason, just saw a tree and thought it would be ok (it is) in less than five minutes. We came home and decorated it in wistful silence. It looks pretty, but I wonder if I’ll ever stop missing the old days?