Clifford hates my traditions. All of them. Every time I mention one, I get flack and pushback and whining and groaning … He eventually caves, even though he still doesn’t want to be involved. And isn’t that really all we want, ladies? We just want them to want to be involved. But I digress.

I want to share about the grand tradition of Christmas Tree hunting. Every year since we’ve been married, we travel about an hour to a tree farm somewhere in North Georgia. You can read about last year’s experience at the tree farm here.

We go the Sunday before Thanksgiving to beat the rush and have the best pick. This year with work, and family obligations, I didn’t think we’d be able to do it. And I knew Clifford would be searching for any excuse to not get the tree. Work and family obligations are pretty sound excuses. Then I saw there would be a small window of opportunity … if the stars aligned just right, we could get our tree on that Sunday just as tradition dictated. Till I saw there was 100% chance of rain. Oh, he is so not going to get the tree now …

Sunday morning arrives. Clifford is eating his breakfast, and I’m sending some emails when he says, “So what? We aren’t getting the tree today then?”

I swear I heard music playing in some far off place and saw light emanating from behind his head. My husband, Mr. Anti-Social-Tradition-Hater himself, was putting it out there … he wanted to get the tree.

“Really?” I asked with doe-eyed surprise. Hope and expectation began filling my hardened little heart. “It’s raining. I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“We don’t have to go. I thought it was tradition or something. When it comes to traditions, rain, sleet, snow, whatever, right?”

OMG. This was not happening. He was in. And it was kind of his idea. Seriously? Seriously.

I immediately sprang to my feet, ran upstairs to put on weather appropriate attire, threw on my rain jacket, grabbed an umbrella and was ready to go. The rain was at least down to a drizzle. This was our window and our moment to have our Christmas tradition upheld.

We hopped in his truck and headed out. Like I said, the Kinsey Family Farm is about an hour away. We laughed and joked in the car, which is one of my favorite things about doing stuff like this together. As we turned onto the highway, the rain started coming down a little harder. And then a little harder. And then it became a total monsoon all the way to the farm. We had to be the only people in all of Atlanta driving an hour to a tree farm just to cut down a tree that day – it was that bad.

We pulled into the farm and were the only ones there. Clifford and I were pumped. There’s just something about being the only ones braving tropical storm conditions just to cut down a tree. It gets your juices going. The staff couldn’t even believe what we were about to do. We’d driven an hour for this moment. It was going to be had.

It was so muddy, the tractor that drives people to the area for cutting couldn’t take us.

Too muddy. Must walk. Must walk far …

We were forced to walk all of the way across the farm to get to the trees that were ready to be taken home. We grabbed a saw and hit the road – laughing at probably one of the most ridiculous experiences we were about to share. I mean, who does this?

The long and muddy road … (so much muddier and nastier than it appears in these pics, by the way)

Clifford: “You brought an umbrella, right?”

Me: “Yep. Have it right here.”

Clifford: “You holding the umbrella over you doesn’t help me.”

Me: “Then you should have had me bring two.”

We hiked over a ¼ mile to the available trees. Clifford was completely soaked by the time we arrived.  I kept pausing to take pictures and document our muddy wet journey – with my umbrella overhead, of course.

Me: “This is an adventure!!! I miss our adventures, Clifford. Why don’t we go on more adventures?”

Clifford: “Because in our adventures, I always end up with the short end of the stick.” – he eyed my umbrella.

We finally arrived and Clifford looked at me, rain dripping off his hood, “Let’s do this.”

So we began our hunt for the Geiselmayr Christmas Tree of 2014. This is no easy feat, mind you. My dad taught me to be picky. Not too bushy, not too thin, no holes, straight top, straight trunk … Rarely could one just stumble upon the perfect tree in a few minutes flat.

As we made our way up and down the mini mudslides, checking out each tree in our path, there came the BOOM. A crash of thunder, and a flash of lightning like five feet from us. Clifford and I looked at each other. Then we laughed. There we were, standing in puddles of water, surrounded by trees while holding lightning rods a metal saw and an umbrella next to our bodies. This wasn’t exactly a genius plan, I’ll admit, but we were having a ball.

We finally agreed on a tree.

The one.

Usually I hold it while he cuts it so when it falls, it doesn’t actually fall. Clifford got on the ground to prepare to saw away. I told him to hold up as I pulled out my iphone to take more pictures, documenting our grand adventure. The next thing I know the tree is hurtling to the ground. Clifford looks at me rather alarmed and with a furrowed brow.

Clifford: “What the hell? I thought you were holding the tree?

Me: “I thought you were pausing so I could take pictures of you about to cut the tree. Didn’t think you were actually cutting the tree.”

Pausing to cut the tree – except not really pausing. Actually cutting the tree.

He rolled his eyes and dragged the tree through the mini forest to the tree stand.

Dragging the tree to the stand.

And we hiked back up the hill towards the barn.

My hero.

Couldn’t feel my fingers, there was more thunder and lightning, was totally soaked from head to toe, BUT this was one of the best tree hunting trips we’d ever had.

Idiots.

They had to drive a truck out to get the tree for us and offered us free hot chocolate for being such troopers. Troopers? Nah. It was just a tradition.

What traditions do you have this time of year? Anything that’s a total “can’t miss”? I’d love to know! Share it in the comments section below.

I am the youngest of a long line of mischievous  children. I was always more on the quiet and shy side, so I’m sure you can imagine the relentless jokes/pranks/torture I had to endure as a child with my older siblings being the crazy ones. Let’s just say I was picked on…a lot. I still am to be honest.

My siblings are also very chatty folks. I was never able to get a word in, especially at the dinner table. I like to say I was stifled. So much in fact, that after reciting the Gettysburg Address in high school, my teacher (who had all of my siblings pass through her class), told me that was the most she had ever heard me say. She also added that knowing my siblings, I probably never got the opportunity to talk much at home. She was right.

So anyway, I was more sensitive, certainly more quiet, and definitely not as naughty as my older siblings. I was one of their favorite victims. So needless to say, when it was just me at home, I finally started to break out of my shell. I missed them, but it was kind of nice to not be picked on as much, or so I thought. Little did I know they would still orchestrate pranks when they were away from home, which brings me to Christmas 1998.

Christmas tree hunting has always been a great tradition in my family.

The hunt for the perfect tree…

Fake trees were out of the question. We had to go to a Christmas tree farm, pick out the perfect tree, and have the patriarch of the family cut it down and tie it to the good ‘ole station wagon. All of us kids would pick out what we considered to be the perfect tree and stand by it. We would of course argue over which tree was best as our father would just try to pick the closest one to the wagon so we could get it cut and be on our way.

For years and years my tree was never picked. Finally, in 1998, it was my turn. Everyone else was either in college or already out of college. This was my year. Who else was there to pick out a tree. So off we went to the tree farm. I found a tree and called my parents over.

“Nah, there’s a hole.” Barely. It was a near perfect tree.

I didn’t see it …

On to the next one.

“Too bushy.” “Too bushy?! I protested, “I want bushy!”

Too bushy?! Trees can never be too bushy!!

I tried to find another tree and again, I was thwarted. Are you kidding me? Everyone was out of the house and I STILL couldn’t pick out a tree. Tree after tree my parents denied every piece of pine I pointed out. Why were they doing this to me? Well, as it turned out, my parents were encouraged by my siblings in far away places to disapprove of every tree I chose. I can see my siblings doing that, but my parents going along with it?! Wow. My mom, who is normally terrible at keeping pranks a secret, was actually able to pull it off too.

Even with all of them gone, I still couldn’t win. Siblings suck.

If you liked Blind Eagle’s sibling story, be sure to check back Wednesday and Friday of this week to read our other two finalists’ stories. And be sure to vote for your favorite!!!

 In a nutshell – we came.

Tree Farm

 We Saw.

The One

 And then Rockefeller Center landed in our living room.

Rockefeller Center

But that wasn’t the best part! This year’s annual expedition to the backwoods of our fine state brought an even bigger smile to my face. What began as an inside joke had finally taken root the way it was always meant to do.

Clifford says to me – “Buy me some t-shirts.”

Me – “What kind of t-shirts?”

Clifford – “I don’t care. Just buy them, woman.”

Me – “You got it, buddy.”

So I buy the shirts. This one included.

Best Shirt Ever

Did I make this purchase because Clifford is Foreigner’s number one fan? No. I bought it because my husband is a green card carrying member of the American immigrants club. I thought it was funny. He didn’t. But he wears it anyway.  As we arrived at the farm, a nice older gentleman smiled and began some small talk. Before Clifford or I could say a thing, he saw the shirt and said, “Oh hey! You’re a foreigner? Wow. Where you from?” It took everything in me not to laugh out loud. 1. Because Clifford was forced to converse with an actual person (and he hates people) 2. Because my shirt totally worked!

As the conversation continued and I revealed I was actually not a foreigner, just a damn Yankee from the Hoosier state, the man started talking about his connections to Indiana and I.U. specifically. He asked if I’d ever heard of Dr. Kinsey. One of our state’s claims to fame – Dr. Kinsey the famous SEX DOCTOR! Of course I knew who he was. Well this gentleman, who’d pegged my husband as an alien in a strange land just by the clothes on his back,  was Dr. Kinsey’s nephew! How crazy is that?

So this year’s trip yielded the perfect tree, an AWESOME win for yours truly, and the acquaintance of Dr. Kinsey’s nephew. So make small talk, people, because it’s all six degrees. And likely great conversation.