The year was 1988. We lived in a farmhouse that was over 100 years old on Burnt Mills Road near North Branch, New Jersey. Our home was situated between two rivers and surrounded by farm fields.
Our landlord gave us permission to cut our Christmas tree from the nearby strip of woods. John and Robyn scouted the woods for the perfect tree. Matt and I joined them later.
Robyn was six years old—the perfect age for a tree cutting adventure.
Matt was only a little over six months old. It was a very cold day, below freezing, and I was concerned it was too cold for him. But, I bundled him up well and he did fine. I still have that wool hat he's wearing.
I remember how proud Robyn was to be bringing home a tree that we cut ourselves.
With a rope tied around the trunk, John dragged the tree through the field to our home. Robyn was his little helper.
When we got to our backyard, I took a picture of my favorite woodsman posing with the tree.
Then Robyn took a picture of the three of us.
And someone took a picture of Robyn.
We decorated our tree with colored lights, popcorn garland and cranberry garland that we strung ourselves, candy canes, and the ornaments we had collected so far.
I will always remember the fun we had the day we cut our Christmas tree—the old fashioned way.