Netflix, needles, and one very stubborn Christmas tree

While most people spent Thanksgiving worrying about overcooking the gravy or forgetting the rolls in the oven, I spent mine on my knees praying to the culinary gods that my turkey wouldn’t explode. Yes, explode. Not because that’s a normal concern, but because I’ve seen National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, and if you think I’m above imagining my bird turning into a puff of Thanksgiving confetti, you’re wrong. In that movie, Cousin Eddie’s wife’s turkey is cut into at the table, and horror of horrors, it lets out a hollow air sound, completely empty inside. Just browned skin and bones. A turkey-shaped shell. I was determined that would not be my Thanksgiving.

But the real excitement came after the turkey survived. My entire family crowded around the TV, dogs included, to watch Train Dreams, a Netflix film shot in our neighboring Whitman County. And I know what you’re thinking: “Olivia, why are you talking about a movie filmed out-of-county when we just had one filmed right here?”

Well, dear readers, dear faithful friends who I have shared my weekly riveting and yes, embarrassing stories with for the past 11 months, it’s because our very own sports reporter, Derek Bilodeaux, is in it. That’s right. Hollywood has Derek now, at least part-time when he isn't chasing sports stories here in Lincoln County. I expect autographs to be $5 and climbing by mid-December.

And listen… allow me to nerd out as a film-school graduate: the aspect ratio, the cinematography, the writing—stunning. Poetic. Tragic. Beautiful. So beautiful that my wiener dog fell asleep halfway through, emotionally overwhelmed. Or maybe she just wanted the popcorn.

We played a little family game called “Where’s Derek?”, a cinematic spin on “Where’s Waldo.” And the kicker? I won. Naturally. I see the man every day. I could spot him in a grainy 1920s newsreel if I had to.

But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for the sharp left turn my weekend took. One minute I’m analyzing film technique; the next, I’m out in the woods, pretending I’m some rugged outdoorswoman, inspired by the frontier spirit of Train Dreams.

Reader, I was humbled.

This “Editor-in-Camo,” soon to be working another National Guard weekend, approached the task of cutting down our annual Christmas tree with the confidence of someone who has watched exactly one survival movie and thinks they now understand nature. I laid under that 7-foot tree, saw in hand, going back and forth, back and forth, imagining I had been laboring for hours. I checked the time.

Three minutes.

I had barely scratched the surface of the trunk.

Twenty minutes later, I was still under there, legs sticking out like the Wicked Witch of the West, while the rest of my family took selfies. When the tree finally fell, I declared victory: “Olivia: 1. Tree: 0.”

But then I remembered our sacred family rule:

You chop it down, you carry it.

So I hoisted that tree over my shoulder like one of my battle buddies from basic training. Honestly, the tree was easier. My old battle buddy used to scream and roll around during casualty drills because the drill sergeants told us to “sell it.” If realism was the goal, she deserved an Oscar. Maybe she’ll end up in the next locally filmed movie.

By the time we got home, I was covered in sap, pine needles, and enough mud to qualify as topsoil. I looked like a woodland creature who lost a fight with a Christmas display. But I was proud. I was tired. And I was incredibly thankful, for tradition, for family, and for one turkey that did not turn into a hollow, air-sounding, skin-and-bone disaster.