The Right Tree

Growing up, I learned a lot about picking out a Christmas tree at a tree farm.

For example: 

• Picking out a Christmas tree is more art than science.
• Getting there as soon after Thanksgiving as possible will give you the most options. 
• Mom's opinion of what constituted a good choice won out at least 9 times out of 10. I mean, the woman knows her trees.
• My tree choices, and Dad's, were almost always too big/tall for the space. Eventually we learned to take a backseat role in tree choices, or at least a backseat-driver role. I sometimes even fantasized about getting an ugly little Charlie Brown tree, but my family rarely shared my pity for them. 

So when Rebecca and I got to venture into the Christmas tree grove on the day after Thanksgiving with my parents and sister, I knew how it would go. Mom would try to choose the most out-of-the-middle-of-the-forest looking tree while Dad would lean more toward a more symmetrical, perfectly conical choice. They would meet in the middle and end up with a tree that had a little of both. There's always a fair amount of magic involved as well, like finding the secret copse that was tucked away in the far corner of the meadow this year.

And so it went. The tree was beautiful, of course, and I was happy to play my small part in this annual tradition. Not to mention that along the way we met an incredibly frisky puppy, found and munched native wintergreen berries, and bumped into my aunt and grandmother (who found a bird's nest in her tree and got jiggy with it).

1 MOMENT - The Story Behind the Photo

A version of this photo and description appeared in the Colby Magazine, Spring Issue 2015. It also appears in Everything Is Insha’Allah, a book of short stories based in West Africa, written by Bradford Philen.

It was early morning on the Tabaski holiday in Dakar, Senegal. Tabaski, or Eid al-Adha, honors the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac to God. In Senegal, the meat from the ram (or rams) is divided into three parts: one third for the family, one third for friends and neighbors, and one third to be given to the poor and hungry.

At the home of my friend Almamy Badiane, his sisters and sisters-in-law made preparations for a feast that would last all day and into the night. Hours would pass between courses, making me envy the ease with which my host and his local guests were able to pass time in comfortable silence. I was antsy. And also ashamed of being antsy.

Venturing into the outdoor kitchen with a dusty Holga camera, I was not unwelcome, but I knew my place as a guest was beside the host. My own plastic chair was waiting for me, and there were several courses still to come.