Freezing and Wheezing in the Hope My Kids Will Know Traditions
<p>I am more <em>in</em> the tree than under it. Poked by sharp needles, butt wet from the snow I must crouch in to reach the trunk. I push, pull, push, pull with a dull, foldable saw that binds easily in the sappy wood. At 9,000 feet, I am sucking wind and my heart is pumping.</p>
<p>All in all, not a great experience.</p>
<p>But after ten years, it is a tradition. Maybe? How many times before it counts as tradition?</p>
<p>Building traditions is a heckuva lot harder than cutting this tree down, mainly because I don’t believe in tradition. I <em>want</em> to believe, but I don’t understand them. They feel meaningless.</p>
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