The Washington Post, December 20th, 1987
LAST YEAR, ON A FRIGID MORNING when the ground was lightly sugared with snow, my long-suffering wife and I, possessed by some foolish Currier and Ives vision of Christmas, stuffed a carpenter's saw, a length of rope and our little tykes into the family station wagon and set off to cut down a tree. We had decided to abandon our traditional Christmas ritual of traveling to a parking lot to give a surly, red-eared man with whisky breath an absurd amount of money in return for a brutally bound and tagged tree. Instead, we were off to a tree farm in Montgomery County. We knew just what we wanted: a...
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