This year’s tree came did not grow on a sloping hillside in the richest county in the United States. We did not wait in line 30 minutes to be allowed the pleasure of cutting it down.

This year’s tree was not bought from Vale United Methodist Church, the white building at an ancient crossroads like a picture postcard with each purchase contributing to a fund to end hunger.

This year’s tree came from a small lot I noticed on the way out of town, a beaten-earth parking lot with a big tacky Santa Claus and a string of simple lights. On our first trip there, we met Bradley from Whitetop Mountain, down near the Tennessee and North Carolina border. His family has been selling trees on this spot for decades, he said.

Bradley apologized. The trees had been picked over, he said, but he was expecting a shipment that very evening. If we liked, he would take our number and let us know when the shipment arrived. I didn’t think we would hear from him, I figured the tree shortage had caught up with us, that we’d have to pay hundreds of dollars for a scrawny spruce.

But by noon last Friday, Bradley texted: the new shipment was in. We hurried over and found a full and fragrant Frasier fir. It now sits proudly in our living room. This year we bought local by necessity. Next year, we’ll buy local by choice.