Smitten for a Mitten

It was a cold, dark, and slightly damp early December night, the exact date being lost to the echoes of time. As a family, it was decided that the Christmas tree would be a real one. Not one of those fake K-Mart trees that the branches snapped in and the needles never really spread out. 

I was bundled up in a heavy winter coat, a knit hat, cowboy boots (with duct tape on the bottom to keep me from slipping and sliding), and mittens.  The family piled into the car and off we went!  On the side of the road was a tree salesman.  I scooted and waddled out of the car doing my best Stay Puft Marshmallow Man imitation.

Beneath the full moon and string lights, we searched for the perfect tree. Some were too short, some too tall, some too round, and others too lean.  Out of nowhere, a light shone on a tree in the middle of the lot and we worked our way towards it.  It was our Goldilocks tree. Just right. 

My dad looked down at me and asked for one of my mittens. I begrudgingly pulled it off and handed it to him. Being the giant of a man that he was (almost six feet tall!) he placed my mitten at the top of the tree.  There it was, a wooly fabric star looking down on me and my now freezing left hand.

What did he just say?  We’re going to look at the other trees?! To make sure??  

Glad he has both of his gloves. 

It was an eternity of checking every other tree on the lot to make sure the mitten tree was truly the one, instead of some random tree propped up in a corner. We finally returned to retrieve my hand covering and buy that tree. I gingerly pulled the mitten onto my hand and felt the blood defrost and begin to flow again. 

We loaded up the tree, climbed in the car and headed home. The next day it was decorated with multi-colored lights, shiny garland, handmade and store-bought ornaments, and silver, stringy icicles.  I heard someone say that next year we would have to get another real tree.

I guess that would be ok as long as Dad used his glove to mark the tree.