Christmas at Home
Clearly, it was a sign. As the burly man loaded our Black Hills spruce on top of the car, he winced as the needles pierced through his gloves and into his thick, calloused fingers. “Them heres angry trees,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Dey never want to be chopped down in the first place.” I stared at the tree on the roof of the car. An angry tree. It’s blue branches shining in the 80-degree sun, drooping over the back of the window, while…