Anyone else feeling a bit like Rip Van Winkle? It’s December already, and if I dare blink, what more time might pass before I feel as though I’ve regained the dropped reins I tenuously hold on its passage?

It certainly doesn’t help when my youngest is barreling into a birthday on top of it all. Is that another gray hair or five? Never mind, that’s something I’m happy to ignore for the time being. 

December. Where did that come from? For better or for worse, here we are. The only thing I can do to find some control is to take a stab at meeting the day’s deadlines. If anyone can tell you about me and deadlines, it’s certainly the saints who deal with me at the River Reporter. I finish the race, but as is my wont, there is little buffer of remaining time. 

Within my own home, however, I have other little saints who hold nothing back when it comes to cracking the whip on their father. It’s December, Dad. We need a tree!

It was only the first Sunday in the month, and to be fair, I didn’t want to go through the trouble of getting a tree any closer to Christmas just to have the whole thing over with. So after church, we drove to our usual spot north of Honesdale, where we’ve been getting our trees the last few years. The folks there are truly great and it’s nice and easy to find something with enough character to please the missus. I’d share the name of their outfit if there was one, but it’s just a family with no real signs or advertisements. Low key, but highly appreciated.

In the past, they’ve had a few cut trees sitting in their yard ready to be bought and hauled away. When we came by this year, they were temporarily out of trees, but they offered the option for us to go cut our own. Still in our church clothes and not wanting to waste any more of this slippery month, we drove our car up the short hill to where the grove was planted. After the kids in dress shoes fell into snow banks a few times, we ambled our way to the back of the stand, where several squat trees were planted. 

Each spoke with its own personality to my wife, who was fully invested in finding the perfect portly (and might I add prickly) tree. After assessing many good-looking trees, she chose the one that was to go home with us. 

Now it was my turn. Off came the peacoat, which served now as my kneepad while I knelt down and began to saw away at the base of the Christmassy conifer. About halfway through, my diminutive peanut gallery became impatient and began to harangue me with inquiries about my status on the job at hand. When I was nearly 90 percent of the way through, my oldest gave a mighty push against the upper boughs and toppled the tree gently to the ground away from us all. I completed the cut and loosened the trunk from its earthly anchor. 

I offered to let the boys drag the tree back to the car, which turned into a very satisfying few minutes of humor for the wife and me before I alleviated their burden. To my surprise, we had walked nearly a full circle back to the car and were a mere 15 yards from the entrance to the grove when we had picked that tree. I didn’t realize at first, due to the shroud of taller trees and the twisting nature of the main path. We made quick work of strapping up the tree and returning the saw we had borrowed. Then we paid and set off for home, where the remainder of the adventure awaited.

The way out here we don’t always keep up with everything we have to do, but as long as we take our time with the special tasks along the way, whatever minutiae we fail to meet hardly matter in the end. As I sit in my living room writing this, I am bathed in the soft ambient light of our Christmas tree. My youngest is playing with the plastic train that runs around its base. And my oldest is still rearranging some of the more reachable ornaments on the branches. The house is a mess, and there’s work to be done tomorrow. Today, however, I dare not ask for any more. Merry Christmas from my family to yours, and may your moments be abundant as they are meaningful.