There was something romantic about what we brought in. She told me for days, years ago, that I wouldn’t be able to do this forever. She said, they will run out of trees, or you, you will run out of back.
Her sisters told her, never marry a lumberjack, there’s that global warming, there’s no job security.
Every year in late November I move the best Spruce, Pine and Fir trees from our back lot to the front lawn alongside the highway. I fasten them into oversized green plastic bowls, my arms spin with heat in the winter.
I'll never forget her brothers, asking me why, when I built our house, doesn’t the front door face the highway?
I told them the noise would keep me up.
Though in truth, I hoped, that when we got older we might stop taking our shoes off at the front door. That we would rather come from a Christmas tree farm, than a highway. There was something romantic about that.