On one of her shopping trips just before Thanksgiving, the wife came home and mentioned they had Frasier firs at the market.

This is unusual, since they normally just sell the worthless balsam firs (worthless unless all your ornaments are made of light paper... ours aren't) or the ugly scotch pines. Since the boys got old enough to become bored with the going out and cutting our own Christmas tree, we have been forced to drive to Hobo Town to buy a decent Noble or Frasier fir.

So, this evening, after our duties at the Elks' Family Night ("Burger Night" to us, which went really well, thank you), we stopped by to look over the trees. Bypassing the cheap balsams for the expensive Frasiers.

Wife immediately gravitated to one on the end of the line, while I checked the other twenty or so trying to find one better. But they were either too warped at the top, too short, too thin at the top, or had major gaps. Hers wasn't really what we wanted, either, but there were none better.

We went inside for milk, still undecided on a tree.

And decided as we entered the checkout line. While it was not perfect, her selection was the best on the lot, and may not be there tomorrow.

So we paid for it.

Now, in this town, in this season, they don't bother escorting you out to pick your tree. You pay for what you want, then pick it up as you go by outside. There's no one watching the trees.

There was an elder gentleman outside the doors, sweeping off the sidewalks. Didn't pay him much mind, assuming he's just another retired senior making use of a part-time job cleaning up after the rest of us.

But as I hand the groceries to the wife, and pull our selected tree out of the bundled forest, he spoke up.

"You know there's a whole bunch more trees on the other side?"

No. No, we didn't. Wife and I exchange glances. This tree was her choice, so now it's her call.

I guard the selected tree while she disappears around the corner. A young couple came up and started joking around with the sweeper, until the wife came back. Then he mentions the other trees are fresher. They just unloaded them today. He doesn't know why the folks in the store don't tell people about them.

(Because they want to sell the old, dry ones first, my cynical mind speaks silently.)

The wife wasn't really excited, but her voice had that confidence it carries when she's made up her mind.

There's a taller one, which is also thicker at top.

So I abandon what was previously our treasure, and go over to look. They are taller. And greener. I suggest she not tell me which one she likes, to see if I select the same, but it's too late.

She already has her hand on it.

But out of habit, I look over another dozen-some trees. She's right, as usual. Hers is the best and, in fact, there aren't any defects at all.

The perfect tree. Except, of course, for the fact that we don't yet have any place to put it. Right now, it's leaning against the hedge and house on the shady north side. Hopefully the wandering neighborhood cat won't pee on it like he did last year.

Didn't stink until we got it inside and warm.

But it's still the perfect tree.

Courtesy of a stranger's helpful suggestion.

'Tis the season, you know.