The Loneliest Conifer

The first story I ever got published (and for a princely sum of $50.00) was a cheesy story called "Christmas I Remember Best" about a Christmas tree my Dad brought home. He freely admitted that it "fell off the truck" and he'd skiped it off the roadside. It was, hands-down, the most pitiful tree I'd ever seen.

Until this morning.

Dad came over last night for dinner. Between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes, he casually mentioned, "uh, you two need a tree, right?"

Lesson One: never, EVER take anything from my Dad. When he says "it fell off a truck," he doesn't really mean it like the New Jersey mobster-esque "fell off a truck." But you'd troubled to know how close it could actually be to that description.

"Where did you get the tree, Dad?" I am no fool.

"I'd rather not say," he sniffed, taking another helping of pot roast, "but it's a perfectly good evergreen with no home. The two of you are always yammering about Living Green and toting out your recycling bins. When I saw this little guy, I knew he was meant for you!" "Well, really, uh, thanks, Dad" I stammered, "but you know we're selling the house and really can't plant anything, so...well." I woke up this morning to find The Loneliest Conifer squatting malevolently in my driveway. Since we get up at 4am for our radio show, this means that man really knows how to set an alarm clock. But it gets better. After conferring with my sisters, I found out Dad had tried to boost The Loneliest Conifer on both of them before doing the tree drive-by at my place.

And dangit, look at it! It's so pitiful! Now I HAVE to plant it.