I send William into the kitchen for my utility scissors while I open the various car doors, positioning for my climb toward the roof. William hands me the scissors, and I cut the twine on this side and then the other and the other until the tree’s freed. The kids cheer me on in the dark, as twilight has given way to night at only four-thirty in the afternoon. The rain is still coming down in a nice, steady splat, splat, splat, and bless my kids, they never once mention the rain, don’t think to complain, and I know it’s because they think all children live like this.

It doesn’t even cross their minds that right now, this very minute, it’s sunny somewhere else in the United States.

That places like Phoenix, Orlando, Los Angeles, and Denver all have sun. That Palm Springs is perfect this time of year. Hawaii sublime. Miami a total hot spot.

No, they’re innocent. They don’t realize if we just moved south, we’d move to blue skies and sun year-round.

Which is why we try not to take them out of state too often. It just makes them wish for drier pastures (notice, I did not say “greener,” as the only place possibly greener then Seattle is Ireland), and they’re not getting drier pastures until they go away to college.

“Okay, William, Jessica, stand back.” I hang on to the SUV’s roof rack. “I’m going to drag the tree to the edge and then drop it down.”

I scoot the tree across the roof, cringing as the branches squeak and scratch. Lifting the base of the tree, I feel the sticky ooze of sap. I make a mental note to be careful of sap. I have sap stains from last year’s mammoth double trunk on one of my favorite sweatshirts still.

Even though this isn’t a double-trunk tree this year, it’s still heavier than expected, and suddenly it’s caught on one of the rack rails. I tug, the tree doesn’t budge; I check the twine, it’s cut; I check the tree, the branches aren’t caught. The tree is just too heavy to knock off the roof.

“William, I’m going to need a hand. Be careful.”

He’s eager to help. He jumps up on the driver’s seat, reaches for the top part of the tree.

“Why can’t I help?” Jessica protests. “Why does William get to do everything?”

“You’re helping, Jess.” I grunt as fresh noble fir branches slap my face. Another good hard yank and I should have the tree off. “Stand back. William—yank it your way and then try to catch it before it falls.”