Cutting the tree down is always a project. It depends on what my mother's chosen for the year. Some years, we have it easy. Other years, not so much.

I ask, "Where's Jacob, Jr.?" It seems like if the men are going, he should also get to experience it.

My dad looks at me in disapproval, claiming, "Three-year-olds don't belong in the tree field. It's too dangerous."

"God help your children when you and Georgia have them," Alexander claims.

Images of a slew of blond-haired, blue-eyed, happy kids next to a very pregnant, beaming Georgia fill my mind.

Maybe that's what I should do. Keep her barefoot and pregnant.

Jesus. I need to get a grip.

It's a colder day, so I grab one of the flannel Carhartts from the barn, knowing that the wind will be even harsher out where we're going. We get in the truck, and my brothers and I jump in the back cab with the kids. It takes about five minutes to get to the large field where my father planted Scottish Pines.

It's my mother's favorite type of Christmas tree. For their tenth wedding anniversary, he decided to create a whole field for her. They have a date night every year before Thanksgiving and come out here. She picks which tree she wants him to cut down, then it's our job to do it. We never know how big or small it will be. My mom keeps us on our toes.

The scent of pine whips through the air, and my father points to the biggest tree in the field. "That's the one, boys."

My brothers and I grumble obscenities. The tree's at least fifteen feet tall. It'll look amazing in our family room, which has a twenty-five-foot vaulted ceiling. The tree also has a full body, and it's hard to see any space through the limbs and needles.

Mason mutters, "That's going to take forever to decorate."

Jagger groans. "Guess we're clearing our schedules the rest of the day."

My father gives them dirty looks. "This is our Christmas tradition. Stop complaining. What are you teaching the boys?"

My brothers glance at our nephews. One thing my parents are serious about is their Christmas traditions. That and the family being together.

I used to believe it was more my mom, but the older they get, the more I think my father loves it just as much as she does.

I order, "Day's not getting any younger. Let's get this down."

My brothers and I start to unload the chainsaw and an ax. We pull the tarp out and put it where we plan on dropping the tree.

Alexander takes the chainsaw, and we all step back.

My father asks, "What are you getting your bride for Christmas?"

My stomach flips. Anxiety fills me. I didn't think about it.

What would Georgia want for Christmas?

I shrug, confessing, "I don't know. I haven't thought that far."