Apparently, some time Saturday afternoon of Thanksgiving weekend, while zipping toward home from Sonora (in the politically incorrect foreign pickup truck that's made in America), we took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and ended up somewhere near Fargo, North Dakota. From soaking up the sun to carting the frostbitten brass monkey into the garage in three short days.
Part of the tradition here at the Casa is the ritual seeking of the perfect tree. Once identified, the kids then hack it down, Paul Bunyan style, with an axe. Gets a few raised eyebrows as the kids wander through the tree farm, hatchet in hand, but so far nobody's called Social Services. Dad grinds them to a fine edge and the kids take turns fighting over who gets to administer the killing blow. The Boy has the killing blow down, but he's not clear on the concept of a perfect tree. This one may be marked down.
That's an elf hat. And that's an elf ear. In case you was wondering.
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