Our house, although small, has high ceilings. There is no attic, only the roof between us and the sky. We spent some time before Christmas keeping our eyes open for a tree that might fit. Tall with a narrow girth. The trees we found were small and squat or high and wide and were not right. We carried a measuring tape for a month.
I love my parents for keeping our christmas trees, going back around ten years, in the garden. It is not a big garden. The trees are remarked upon by visitors in the summer. For years a lonely wooden woman-skiier hung with only one ski on the uppermost branch of the tallest tree. I could see her from my bedroom window. The branches are used for firewood and the trunks age in the open, called upon occasionally as washing-line supports.
When Pierce and I could not find a tree I disentangled the above pictured from the other trunks, like aging elephants, each one year more brittle, one year smoother. This tree feels like a bone and we have kept it to hold up our lamp.