Sally Breslin: My Life: PROOF THAT I'M THE VICTIM OF A CHRISTMAS-TREE CURSE

For some reason, I’ve never had much luck with real Christmas trees.

I remember one Christmas, only two months after my husband and I were married, when I insisted that we get into the holiday spirit by going someplace where we could choose and chop down our own tree. Unfortunately, the day we ventured out to a tree farm turned out to be the coldest day of the year. We found ourselves trudging through a field of deep, crusty snow as howling winds whipped at our backs.

After only ten minutes out in the fresh December air, I lost all feeling in my cheeks and lips. It’s funny how the threat of frostbite and the near-loss of a lower extremity can suddenly make even the most lopsided tree look perfectly symmetrical.

The tree we chopped down turned out to have no branches on one side. Unfortunately, the tree farm’s owner had a “you cut it, you keep it” policy, so we were stuck with it. We had to stand the tree in a corner of the living room so no one would notice its bare backside. And because the only corner where it would fit was located right next to a hot-air vent, the tree was completely bald within three days.

A few years later, I decided to surprise my husband by buying a tree and having it all set up and decorated by the time he got home from work. I chose a night when he would be working late, then went to a tree-sales lot in Manchester, which was 17 miles from our house.

The young man who worked there was very helpful, holding up tree after tree for me as I searched for just the perfect one. Finally, I found it. It was super-fresh and full, and the price was right. But it was huge.

“I don’t think it will fit in your trunk,” the employee told me as he sized up my Ford Falcon.

“Well, maybe we can tie it onto the roof,” I said.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that won’t work, either. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I get out of work here at about 10, and I have a truck. Give me your address and I’ll personally deliver the tree to your house.”

His generous offer surprised me. “You’d really do that for me?” I asked. “I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all!” I eagerly gave him my address.

When my husband got home from work that night, I was disappointed I didn’t have a decorated tree ready to show him, but I excitedly told him the news.

“And the employee is even going to deliver the tree after he gets out of work at 10:00 tonight!” I concluded, smiling proudly. "Isn't that great?"

“You gave some strange guy your home address?” he asked. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, you’re not really that naïve, are you?”

I stared cluelessly at him. “He was just being nice. What’s wrong with that?”

He rolled his eyes. “You honestly think that if I’d gone there and bought the exact tree, he’d be coming all the way out here to deliver it? Heck, he’d have strapped it onto my back and made me WALK home with it! Mark my words - he has an ulterior motive!”

I frowned at him. “You’re wrong! Can’t someone just be nice without you thinking he’s up to no good?”

My husband shook his head knowingly and sighed. “I’ll bet he thinks you’re single. And I’ll bet you were wearing gloves, so he didn’t see your ring finger.” Before I could answer, he added, “Tell you what. I’ll go out and park my car next door, so only your car will be in the driveway. Then I’ll hide in here, and we’ll see what your “Mr. Just-A-Nice-Guy” does when he gets here, okay?”

My chin rose defiantly. “Fine! You’re on, Mr. Scrooge!”

At 10:30, Mr. Nice Guy, tree in hand, knocked at the door. I answered it and he barged right in, walking past me and leaning the tree against the living-room wall.

“Cute place you have here,” he said, quickly glancing around as he unzipped his jacket.

As I stood there staring at him, he headed down the hallway, checking out each room along the way. “Hope you don’t mind if I stay here and warm up for a while,” he said. “I’ve had a long day and I’m frozen. Got anything to drink? And I could use a sandwich or something. Say, is this your bedroom?”

Not budging, I watched him as he walked directly into the bedroom…where my husband quietly was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hi!” I heard my husband cheerfully greet him. “Looking for something?”

The guy practically left skid marks in his haste to get out of the house.

I still can picture my husband, his arms folded and a smug, "I told you so" expression on his face, when he emerged from the bedroom.

The very next year, we bought an artificial tree.

But recently, my urge to have a real tree has returned. In fact, I've spent the past two months scoping out the trees growing on my land in an effort to find one I can chop down this year for Christmas. After careful scrutiny, I finally found one I thought would be perfect – just full enough, not too tall, and nicely shaped.

ACTUAL PHOTO OF THE TREE I PICKED OUT

Last week, I went back into the woods behind the house to check out the tree again. As I walked toward it, I suddenly froze, my mouth falling open. Every pine tree surrounding it was lush and green, but my precious future Christmas tree had turned an ugly orange color from top to bottom. It wasn’t just one section of it, it was the entire tree, as if some virulent pine-killing plague had singled it out and engulfed it all in one shot. I’d never seen anything like it before.

It’s a curse, I tell you. A Christmas-tree curse.

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