How lovely are your branches

It was unseasonably warm for Thanksgiving weekend, but we all wore scarfs and hats on principle. We trotted three blocks down Broadway in Astoria to the Christmas tree stand in front of C*Town, near the falafel truck that always wins the Vendy Awards. Not quite over the river and through the woods, but at least we didn't get stuck under a semi-truck.

The trees were bundled up in string, so we eyed them carefully for fatness and settled on one a little taller than I am. The air was piney. I was uncontainably excited about this, my first legit live Christmas tree, full-sized, needle-dropping, and all. The stand girl dragged our tree over to the measuring stick and announced the price, at which we recoiled. "This is a Fraser fir," she explained, "They're the most expensive because they smell the best and last the longest. The Douglas firs will come later, they're cheaper but they might not make it till Christmas." You get what you pay for. "We might get some Douglases in later tonight, you could come back if you want."

Like many businesses in New York, the Christmas tree stand is open 24 hours, and the girl explained that she has the day shift, 9 am - 9 pm. "How do you go to the bathroom?" was Andrew's question. Bethany and I were more concerned about food breaks. She was unfazed by our nosiness and explained that she's befriended the Vendy guys. They feed her and she limits her liquid intake.

The girl was skinny and pale, with dirty hands, falsely black hair, a lip ring, combat boots, a grungy sweater and lace underwear that showed above her jeans as she wrestled our tree to the baler and bent to trim its trunk. She had responded well to the first personal question, so I asked another one, a question that plagues me whenever I behold a Christmas tree stand employee. "What do you do the rest of the year?"

"Oh, I wander around," she explained cheerfully, slicing branches away to clear the trunk of our tree. "I just go places, then come back at Christmas to sell trees. I'm going to Guatemala next month, working on a boat. You know. I like different stuff." She sliced a disc off the trunk, and we of course wanted to know why. "The tree has to drink. The end dries up so you have to cut it clean again, so it can soak up the water." Her hair fell across her face as she peered at the severed piece. "Sorry, I like to count the rings. It's cool to know how old the trees are. This one's a good one."

We of course asked. Our tree is twelve. "It hasn't been bar mitzvahed!" Andrew sympathized. She baled our tree, pocketed our life savings (we loved our tree already), and the boys hauled it down Broadway, complaining about sap on their sweaters.

We wrapped it in lights. Hung all the ornaments and only broke one. It's the first thing I smell in the morning - better than coffee - and the first thing I smell when I get home at the end of the day - almost better than wine.

Happy Christmas.