Before leaving for France, I bought a Christmas tree for the loft. It was no small matter, if you forgive the wording here: the instructions were that it should tower.
Ed, with his rusty truck where mice have taken to nesting and myself, out searching for a big tree. It took two days until, indeed, one was found.
The tree rested on the truck for the weeks I was away. Monday, first thing, while the crows slept and the sparrows dozed, the tree was brought into the loft. Up it went, reaching for the ceiling, the 30 foot ceiling, up up (okay, maybe not to the top, but pretty darn high).
Secured, positioned, ready for the arrival of three people who, together with me, have decorated a tree every year since time began.
First person arrives. She looks critically at it and pronounces it magnificent. But in the wrong place.
Second person arrives and says “not bad” and notes that the position could stand adjustment.
Third person about to arrive. First two people have given excellent advice. The entire loft is rearranged. The tree is pushed against the brick wall. It kind of rocked and wobbled in protest, but it survived the transport from point A to point B.
Tonight, the trimming begins.
Let it be noted that of equal importance is the food that you eat while you trim. Bubbly drinks and festive nibbles.
So, on this day I'm dreamily raising my glass (of cranberry grape juice at this point) to the tree, the wonderful tree that brings people and food together.
To be continued.