Oh, Christmas tree!
Move over, toilet paper. Christmas trees are the new commodity of choice. For all those who haven’t gotten theirs yet, all I can say is: abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Our high living room ceiling demands a tall Christmas tree, so we usually purchase ours from a u-cut farm that sells huge trees for a reasonable, flat rate. The Saturday after Thanksgiving, my brother- and sister-in-law announced they were heading to the farm to buy their Christmas tree, and asked if we wanted to come along.
“It looks like spots are filling up fast,” my sister-in-law said, “but I just called and they assured me they could squeeze us in.”
I was on board, but Logan was less excited; there were pies, ping pong, and football to be enjoyed at home, and he convinced me that getting our tree the following week would be a better plan.
But the next weekend, when we started out on our tree-foraging adventure, we discovered that our u-cut farm had already sold out of inventory.
“How can COVID even manage to ruin Christmas trees?” Logan asked incredulously as he turned the Suburban around and headed towards a place we’d visited a few years prior: a smaller and rather over-priced operation that nevertheless had a location out in the country that might make our kids feel like they were getting the usual tree farm experience. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to see a handful of bedraggled trees leaning haphazardly against some poles.
“This can’t be the entire selection,” I said to the friendly teenager manning the entrance.
“Oh yes, this is all we have left,” she informed us. “We sold out fast this year, maybe like two days ago.”
We piled back into the Suburban, and I pulled out my phone to desperately Google “christmas trees spokane washington”. I called a few more farms. Sold out, sold out, sold out.
“What are we going to do?” wailed five-year-old Hyrum from the back seat. “Are all the Christmas trees in the world GONE???”
“Oh no,” I reassured him. “Dad and I have a plan. A really, really great plan…”
We looked at each other and shrugged.
“So where are we going to go next?” Jane asked.
“We’re heading to a little farm called ‘Costco’,” I replied.
The kids groaned. We drove in silence towards Costco, feeling about as deflated as Rudolph watching the reindeer games.
And then, across the street from Costco, we saw a small operation with trees for sale that soared to the heavens.
“Let’s check this out first,” Logan suggested as the kids tumbled out of the car and ran towards the trees.
It didn’t take long to find a tall tree that everyone loved, so I flagged down an employee to ask about pricing. The tree we wanted was 12 dollars per foot.
“So, if we get a tree that is 15 feet tall, it will be close to 200 dollars,” I said to Logan and the kids, who were looking at me expectantly.
“That’s crazy!” I said. “There is no way we’re spending 200 dollars on something that we’re going to drag outside in three weeks and set on fire.”
More groans. We made our way over to Costco, and I got ready to hop out of the car to check out the tree selection before we made the effort to find a parking spot.
“Mom, why are you making us buy a tree from here?” whined one of the kids from the back row.
“Hey, this is not my doing,” I said defensively before turning to Logan. “While I’m gone, why don’t you tell them the story about how I wanted to get a Christmas tree last weekend?”
I shut the door and headed towards the trees. Ten minutes later, we were the reluctant owners of an eight-foot spruce. Thankfully, by the time we’d carried it out to the car, strapped it on top, and eaten four giant Crumbl cookies we’d serendipitously purchased hours earlier, everyone was on board with the downsized Christmas tree situation. Like most things in 2020, it may be different than what we’re used to, but it—and we—will be just fine.