I looked out the kitchen window one cold March morning and suddenly noticed a new tree standing in our backyard—a six-foot, straggly evergreen with bits of tinsel still clinging desperately to its branches. The tree had not been there the day before. Since we had neither a son named Jack nor any magic beans, we knew one of our mischievous friends had planted the tree.
“I know exactly who did this,” said my husband Dan. “It had to be Danny Sutton. That rascal loves playing practical jokes. Remember the time he took those squirt guns to that wedding?”
Dan soon confirmed that Danny was the culprit, and a new post-holiday tradition began. Each year Danny found a new spot in our yard to deposit his old Christmas tree, and it was often days later before we realized he had done it.
