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| That's how we roll in Bridgewater, monsters. |
I'm
trying to convince friends and neighbors to go out with me and cut
down ye ole Christmas tree. I live among a bunch of heathens, people
that didn't grow up in the church. For me, Christmas is about the
gift Christ gave the world. To them it's about cheap plastic crap and forced commercial saccharine travesty. I play Sufjan
Stevens's Christmas album, wear my red scarf with the gold stars.
But
no one will go cut down balsam with me, even though there's plenty of
it out there to be cut. It's like a weed. I find myself relating to
the heathen from my past, the Druid ancestors who invented advent
traditions, of cutting down greenery to hold down the smell of their
chickens in the house. Or goats. Whatever. My research into
northeastern Europe's medieval livestock is fuzzy at best.
Why
must all of you who didn't grow up in the church be such
Christmas-poopsters? Such Scrooges? It's a good holiday. It's good
ayurvedic practice to fill your nostrils with pine for one month a
year.
Anyway.
I'm going to find a way to sneak some pine into the house, if I have
to buy it at Lowe's. It's a major local employer. At least I'll be
contributing to the economy. Investing in evergreen farming.
