Well, what do we do now?

Damnit.

Our Christmas Tree guys aren't here this year. Usually they show up a bit before Thanksgiving, and I just kept telling myself that they were late. I'm wondering if Duke's sick, but I can't find anything about it...he calls his business "Flat-Snoot's Trees" - his nickname after his broken and mis-set nose. Every year, on the Plymouth Road lot, they string lights, play music, and live for the month in their ancient trailer.



If you were lucky enough to get invited inside, you'd be hit by the warmth of a huge open-flame heater, and a half-dozen unshaved UPers in various states of Carhatt-bedecked undress, offering Egg-Nog shooters. Last year, the boys were abstemious when I arrived, but my gentle reminder had them quickly bringing out the nog, and whatever the hell they put in it. We toasted the season several times in front of a cheery propane fire as the wind whipped the snow around the parking lot.

This, my friends, is a Christmas experience, and I'm heartbroken to be missing it.

Cheers to you, guys, wherever you've landed.