Christmas in July

My parents own a Christmas Tree Farm. These are awesome places to grow up – we had access to four wheelers and gators, plenty of land to roam on, and the farming never required getting up at 4 a.m. to feed/milk/harvest, or spreading poo.  It also mean that at Christmas, the family finally had the financial fruits of the year’s labor, and we had presents rained on us like a first-born grandchild.  This was much deserved, as we spent the rest of the year on “Austerity Budget,” but I digress.

Have you ever wondered what happens to the Christmas trees that don’t sell?  My family is fortunate enough to have a set-up where there are rarely leftover trees – most of them are sold wholesale in advance, and we have a choose-and-cut lot for families in the area that want to cut their own Clark Griswold style.  But one year, there were a few that were all baled up, but sat forgotten and dried out.  My dad, in his pyromaniac ways, decided to do the only logical thing – burn it!

If you have never seen a dried-out, baled Christmas tree burn, you truly are missing out.  The flame like you wouldn’t believe, and when the twine finally breaks from the heat, the entire tree bursts out and flames fly everywhere.  And the heat!  WOW!  At a recent burning, someone remarked how hot a forest fire must be, if a single, small tree burning causes us to take many steps back and shield our eye. My favorite part is the little needles that fly off and float around in the air, bright orange, like a million little fireflies lighting up the sky.  (that is, until one lands on your forehead and gives you a nice little burn.)

The discovery of how much fun it is to burn a tree has led to an increase in harvesting of trees towards the end of the season, solely for the purpose of having leftovers to burn for out-of-town guests, weddings, birthdays, and general celebrations.  So, you know we like you, when you come visit us and we burn a tree in your honor

She thinks my tractor’s sexy….

I mentioned before that our 4th of July involves the “Beach Chair Brigade” – 16 ladies toting beach chairs, performing a new routine to a new song every year in the local parade.  We are quite proud of the fact that we are the only folks in the parade purely for entertainment purposes – we don’t sell, promote, or advertise anything.

This year was our 19th year (there is some debate on that, apparently we need to elect an official historian to keep track). We had our first beach chair casualty – right before the parade started, I ran into City Hall to pee, set my chair down…and Lyndon accidentally ran it over with the minivan (FYI-my parents minivan.  We don’t have one.  yet.).  The chair didn’t fare so well, as you can imagine.  (Lyndon told me afterwards that as soon as he heard the “crunch,” all he could think was “please be green, please be green” (I was in a green row) because he knew I would handle the chair without a complaint.  He also told me that he, my sister, and my dad spent the entire parade laughing their a$$es off at my expense).  So 15 minutes before the parade started we’re digging through my dad’s toolbox and managed to fandangle that think back together using zip-ties and a metal clamp.  The chair opened, but it was all wonkey and didn’t sit down straight, and I felt like a big ‘ol dork swinging the mangled chair around.  My sister was walking next to us taking pictures, and every time I opened it up or set it down, she would catch my eye and we would both crack up.  At one stage, I looked down and my hand was covered in blood from the jagged edges of the broken metal.

I think I covered pretty well – probably nobody noticed, and looking at the video, it isn’t that obvious.  My sister has pictures, when I get them I’ll share

I give you 2010′s Beach Chair Brigade performance – to “She Think’s my Tractor’s Sexy” by Kenny Chesney: