As I sit in our freezing cold basement, I cannot tell you how happy this entire family is that we had the foresight to make our annual trek to Starr Pines Christmas Tree Farm last weekend, when it was sunny and in the 50s, instead of this weekend, when it is flurrying and a bitter 20-something degrees. Because, being who I am, there would have been no way I would have agreed to forgoing the 30-minute drive, the hayride, the tromping around among the rows of fir trees, no matter how frostbitten our toes and faces became. "Get a tree from a lot here in town?" I would have scoffed. "Are you kidding? Chopping down our own tree is our tradition! Now put on these eight layers of clothing and get in the car." And then I would have forced my family on some sort of crazed Siberian death march through the frigid wind of the Boonville countryside, hacksaw in hand. Instead, we got to be these cheery people. We couldn't really get Annie to make a regular face