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Wood!

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This weekend we went looking for the Christmas tree on the U-shaped farm.

– And this one? Shouted my wife.

I walked slowly through the icy mud to where she was. Kneeling down, I looked at the base of the tree.

– Honey, I think we’re in the old tree section. Where are the trees you don’t need Paul Bunyan to cut?

“But it looks good,” she retorted. – See how the branches are soft and flexible, the angles are in proportion and have no flaws!

– Honey, you’re looking for a tree, not a boyfriend. It is too large to cut.

“But it’s perfect,” he insisted.

Incredulous, I looked at her.

– Oh, I see. The tree can’t be defective, but no problem if I stay in bed all week with a dislocated shoulder !?

I was about to win when she made me feel guilty.

– Don’t you want the best tree for your children?

I looked at my children. Pine needles clung to the sugar in their faces.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But take my insurance card in case the paramedics need it.”

An hour later the huge tree fell to the ground. And for the two dislocated muscles and the intense headache, I paid forty dollars!

Dragging the tree to the car, I looked at my wife.

– Why do you wait? She asked.

– By a crane for lifting and landing on the roof.

After several attempts to lift the tree, I heard my daughter’s voice:

– Where is daddy?

“On the floor,” answered my wife. – Ken, what are you doing there?

“I’m resting,” I replied. “When the hot chocolate is done, I’ll probably be ready to get the tree off my chest.”

Finally, I managed to secure the tree to the roof and we returned home. The next challenge was to put the huge log in the small stand.

– How’s it going? Asked my wife, entering the garage where I sawed the trunk with a saw.

“Do you want an ornamental tree for the dining room table?” I asked. “You could cut off the top third of it and throw away the rest.”

– For Christmas morning we can sit around the table and

open the presents? He asked sarcastically. – Would be funny. If you put her on the nightstand, we don’t even need to get out of bed.

When the tree finally fit into the holder, I led it into the living room. Kneeling beside the stand, I asked the family to help me straighten it.

– What about? I asked, plunged into the branches of the tree.

“A little to the left,” they said in chorus.

– It’s ok?

– To the right.

– Like this?

– To the left.

– It’s ok?

– There! Do not move! Shouted my wife. – Is perfect. It’s more right than ever. How did you do it?

“I accidentally reached into the holder,” I said. “But it must seem a little strange, not to mention the hassle, to stay here like this during our Christmas party next week.”

Later that night, after the lights were on and my wounds were bandaged, my wife and children decorated the tree.

“Look, Dad is pretending to be a bank,” my daughter said above me, placing an ornament on a branch.

“Indeed,” said my wife. – I think Daddy passed out.

Merry Christmas! Ken Swarner Jack Canfield; Mark Victor Hansen Chicken Soup for the Soul – The Christmas Treasure Mem Martins, Lyon Editions, 2002 (adaptation)

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