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By John Hood, frequent columnist

One of my fondest Christmas memories makes me seem like a great outdoorsman — which is, I suppose, why I cherish it so fondly.

I grew up in a family of seven. We lived on a 40-acre plot in rural Mecklenburg County (there used to be such a thing).

When I was about 10, I assumed a sacred obligation: venturing out into the woods, armed only with a small ax, to harvest a cedar or pine for our Christmas tree.

Like young master Washington, I will not tell a lie: the results weren’t always pretty. But I decorated it so elaborately that no one noticed — or so I prefer to recall.