Far to the south of our farm there is a hill. It’s not a particularly large hill, though it is fairly steep. At it’s crown is a very old oak tree.
No one knows how long that oak has been there, though some say that an oak grew their before this ancient one, one one before even that.
In the branches of that oak there is mistletoe in December and it is rare to see anyone try to pick mistletoe from that tree. It lies on our land and custom of generations is that none of our family ever have.
And yet it is said that a man and woman who kiss under that tree on Christmas Eve, will be married within the year.
I did.
You did.
And we were.
The End
Paul Levy 