Where to Cut Your Own Christmas Tree in New Jersey

I'm still not sure how our marriage survived this adventure

There are two types of Christmas tree people: those who prefer to buy at garden centers and local stands, and those who like the adventure of cutting their own.

If you are a "cut-your-own" type of person, or think you might be if given a saw and permission, here are the tried and true places in New Jersey where you can release your inner-yuletide lumberjack. 

Rest assured. Almost all cut-your-own Christmas tree farms will cut them for you. Advice: bring gardening gloves to wear because the needles will pinch, and remember that most farms accept cash only. 

Dixiedale Farms: Family owned and operated since 1911, Dixiedale farms is a short ride from Bergen County. Dixiedale never disappoints. The town of Chester is also a great place to grab a bite to eat or a cup of hot chocolate. Open Saturday & Sunday 9 a.m.-3:30 p.m. 

Dixiedale Farms is located at 347 Hillside Ave & River Road, Chatham, NJ

Hidden Pond Tree Farm: Hidden Pond Tree Farm makes cutting your own tree a family even you'll remember forever. Aside from roaming the farm looking for the perfect tree, they offer free hot chocolate and marshmallows that the children can roast over an open fire. There's nothing like watching the sun set while roasting marshmallows. Open daily (except Mondays) 9 a.m.-5 p.m.

Hidden Pond Tree Farm is located at 4 West Field Road, Mendham, NJ 

The Village Tree Farm: Open weekends. To make the day even more fun for the kids The Village Farm is offering hay rides pulled by an antique tractor, cookies, candy canes and while supplies last a free coloring book! This year they will also be offering photography service where your pets and children can have their picture taken with two of Santa's Reindeer! 

The Village Tree Farm is located at 8 Meyersville Road, Green Village, NJ

Shale Hill Christmas Tree Farm: Open weekends through Christmas from 9:30 a.m. to dark. All trees are $75 plus tax--cash or check only. Cut Your Own Pines, Spruces and Firs, NJ State Fair Award Winning Trees. Adorable farm animals, tasty refreshments, the “REAL” Santa Claus. Christmas movies in the hayloft! 

Shale Hill Christmas Tree Farm, 98 Pond School Road, Sussex, NJ

Plut’s Christmas Tree Farm: Family-owned and operated since 2000, Plut’s is open Wednesday and Thursday 10 a.m.–9 p.m., Friday and Saturday 9 a.m.–9 p.m., and Sunday 9 a.m.–6 p.m. Trees start at $35. After cutting your tree visit the gift shop.

Plut’s Christmas Tree Farm, Rt 31, Washington, NJ (2-1/2 miles south of the intersection of Routes 57 and 31)

Wyckoff’s Tree Farm: Family owned since 1839, Wyckoff’s Tree Farm has been featured in the NY Times. Open daily 8 a.m.–4:30 p.m. You will find an ample supply of both cut-your-own and fresh cut trees available. Wyckoff’s Farm starts the season with approximately 5,000 trees available including: Douglas Fir, Fraser Fir, Blue Spruce, Norway Spruce & Concolor Fir. Wyckoff’s also has a gift shop that features wreathes and ornaments. 

Wyckoff’s Tree Farm, 249 Country Road, Belvidere, NJ

Jolly Holly Christmas Tree Farm: All trees $48 no matter what size. Open weekends through December 18^th 11 a.m.–4 p.m. Santa comes to visit!

Jolly Holly Christmas Tree Farm, 56 Maple Lane, Blairstown, NJ

Stonerow Tree Farm: All trees $50. Open weekends through December 11^th. Stonerow also has the Merry Moose Gift Shop where you can find all kinds of holiday decorations and gift ideas. 

Stonerow Tree Farm, 242 Wykertown Road, Branchville, NJ

Holiday Tree Farm: Open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday through December 17 from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. All trees $61 regardless of type or size. The Christmas Shoppe offers holiday decorations, gifts, and refreshments. 

Holiday Tree Farm, 44 Augusta Hill Road, Augusta, NJ

Anne Ellen Tree Farm & Shoppe: Open daily from 9 a.m.–8 p.m. through December 23^rd. Over 100 acres of trees to choose from, farm animals, and Santa visits on the weekends! Anne Ellen Tree Farm is also an ideal place to grab a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie and have a picnic with the family. Anne Ellen’s also has a holiday shoppe that will personalize your ornaments while you wait. 

Anne Ellen Tree Farm & Shoppe, 114 Daum Road, Manalapan, NJ

Simonson Farm: Open daily through Dec. 23.M-F: 12 p.m.- 7 p.m. and weekends 9 a.m. – 6 p.m. Featured on CNBC, Simonson Farm has two fields with over 50 acres of trees to choose from. All U-Cut White Pine $10 off. Retail Lot White Pine $6/ft. Wagon rides and horse-drawn carriage rides available; barbecue sandwiches for sale on weekends. Simonson Farm has a Holiday Shoppe that features wreaths and other holiday gifts. 

Simonson Farm, 118 Dey Road, Cranbury, NJ

Cherryville Farms: Open weekends 9 a.m. to dark through Dec. 24. Cherryville Farms is a family-run farm that offers the best in cut your own trees. They also offer handmade wreaths and crafts for sale. Hot chocolate provided with a tree purchase. Cash or personal check only. 

Cherryville Farms, 352 Quakertown Road, Pittstown, NJ 

Perfect Christmas Tree Farm: Perfect Christmas Tree Farm is owned and run by John and Cynthia Curtis, the farmer and his wife. As part of the William Penn Land Grant of 1681, this historic 45-acre farm has always been a farm, preserving this special place as a working farm. You can take a hayride out to the fields or walk across the covered bridge to find the perfect tree. Watch wreaths being made and decorated in the barn and then come inside & warm up by the fire in the Gift Shop. Children find Santa’s Box – a special trunk filled with small toys for good boys and girls, irresistible. Free trees for churches. 

Perfect Christmas Tree Farm, 999 U.S. 22, Phillipsburg, NJ

Spruce Goose Farm: Open daily from 9 a.m.–5 p.m. Spruce Goose Farm is a family-owned farm. Ride the wagon into the fields to cut your tree and then visit the gift shop.

Spruce Goose Farm, 194 Bordentown-Georgetown Road(Rt 545) 
Chesterfield, NJ

The Evergreen Farm: Open weekends through Christmas 9 a.m.–5 p.m. Family-owned and operated, The Evergreen Farm has a number of different types of Christmas trees all in the 6 to 9 foot range. Cider and cookies await as you pick your perfect tree. 

The Evergreen Farm, 4 Bass Lane, Lebanon, NJ

ON LANGUAGE: A COCK & BALL STORY

“Why is that every time I go to use my balls they’re lying all over the place dirty and deflated?” Jim huffed as he came in from outside balancing two dirty basketballs in his hands. “People in this house better start respecting my balls and treating them a little better!”  

          It isn’t often that life, specifically my husband, hands me such a golden nugget. Retorts popped in my brain like kernels of Jiffy-Pop until the overload switch kicked in and I was rendered completely speechless. The best I could do was cock an eyebrow at his dirty balls.  

          Yes, I know this is juvenile, but I have an eight-year old son so I’m kind of stuck in the land of all things juvenile right now. And recently, the eleven-year old brother of one of his friends decided to inform all the neighborhood eight-year olds that the word ball carries a dual meaning. I know this because he told me as I was tucking him into bed one night.

          “You know mom ‘Sam’s’ brother told us today that the word ball means something else,” Jack confided.

          HIT THE PAUSE BUTTON and REWIND.

Okay, I learned that before jumping to conclusions, it’s always good to Perry Mason your kids because often (in my case) conclusions are jumped to that often convict them of offenses they never intended to commit.

The last week of school Jack informed me that a classmate urged him to say the “C” word. Horrified, I cut him off, stormed out of the room and immediately called said classmate’s mother. She emphatically protested that there was no way her son would ever know that word let alone say it, and summarily hung up on me, ending what never would have been a friendship.

          Filled with indignation, I went back to Jack for more information to prove her wrong. Not wanting to have Jack say the offensive word the boy tried to force him to say, I instructed him to spell it for me--letter by letter.

“Jack, what letter comes after C?”

          “D,” he replied matter-of-factly.

          “C-D?  Jack, what letter comes after C? I asked, beginning to lose my patience.

          “I told you D.”

          “The C in the C word isn’t followed by the letter D.”

          “Mom,” he replied in irritation. “You asked me what letter comes after C. D comes after C in the alphabet.”

          “No, No, No. The C word. What letter comes after C in the C word?” I pressed.

          “Oh. Are we still talking about that? R. R comes after C” he said.

          “C-R?” I couldn’t make it out. “What letter comes after R and if you tell me S I’ll send you to your room!”

          “A comes after R.”

C-R-A…the C word isn’t spelled that way. “Give me another letter,” I demanded, mingling my impatient frustration with his.  

          “Geeze mom, what is this Wheel of Fortune?” he angrily retorted.

          “I want to know the next letter in the C word!” I yelled.

          “P. C-R-A-P. There mom. Are you happy now? You just had me spell the C word.”

          “Crap? Crap is the C word you’re talking about? Are you kidding me?” I almost said “Are you fucking kidding me? but thankfully my half-second delay had miraculously kicked in.  

Relieved that the C word he was talking about was only crap I said, “You’re right Jack. That is a bad C word. I’m glad you didn’t say it. I’m proud of you.” And considering that swearing is my second language, I was indeed proud of him for not saying it to his classmates.

          Which is why I hesitated jumping to conclusions with his balls story. I wanted to make sure we were both on the same page.

          “Mom,” he whispered conspiratorially, “did you know (laugh, laugh, giggle, giggle) that a ball isn’t only something you toss, kick or dribble. It’s your…you know,” he continued to laugh as he pointed towards his SpongeBob briefs that he was wearing inside-out.

I don’t know which was cuter. Him thinking that he and his friends were let in on a great newly discovered secret, or the fact that he thought he was teaching me something entirely new. I was just so thrilled that I still had enough currency in his world that he wanted to share this with me.   

The problem is that he now tries to fit this double entendre into every possible sentence and scenario. And his father, so happy to have a bona fide excuse to act like an eight-year old again, was happy to indulge. He did not see it as immature; he preferred to see it as bonding with his son.

So, needless to say I am referee to all the dinner table father-son ball-banter stories whether at home, at restaurants, or at Grandma’s; all the sports references about chasing balls, kicking balls, balls hitting the net…

And then there was my son’s original song, “I’ve Got 3 Balls, That’s Why I Limp” created as we were walking to the field while he was carrying his basketball, soccer ball, and baseball.  

So how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to unleash my inner eight-year old when my husband stood before me asking about his deflated dirty balls? However, the moment was interrupted by the doorbell.

Standing in my doorway was our neighbor holding a mud crusted basketball in her hand that she had plucked from the body of her newly planted azalea bush. She and I just stood there staring each other down until she cocked her untrimmed eyebrow at the dirty ball.

“I believe this dirty ball belongs to you? Can you please keep them out of my bushes? ” she scolded.

“Jim,” I called from the porch. “The neighbor wants you to keep your dirty balls out of her bush!”   

 Because I’ve learned that if you can’t beat your metaphorical balls, you might as well join them. And laugh out loud.

Mortgage Apple Company

Please watch and share my video interview for MomtoMomTV.com of Angela Logan. Angela is a Bergen County mom who turned a horrific situation into a thriving business. She is one of the most inspirational women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. She falls into the category of a person you'll never forget.

Beautifully filmed by Donna Brennan for Wonton Women Productions LLC

One Wedding and a Felony

As if kidnapping a Mexican wasn’t bad enough, how about adding a felony to my resume? Let me ‘splain. My husband was best man at a brother fireman’s wedding. That morning, he assured me that he’d stop at the bank to take out money for the gift.  

Fast forward. I walk into the venue at 11:20am and there’s my Mr. Wonderful, suave in his tux, leaning on the bar imbibing what must have been one in a series of drinks because his eyes were mirthfully beginning to cross. A tsunami of scotch splashed from his glass because he couldn’t hold it level. No doubt: I am anointed designated driver when I desperately need to drink. (Breathe…you can do this sober…so what the kids’ had a waffle fight before I left and Log Cabin has afro-sheened my hair? So what the dog was constipated and needed my rubber-gloved intervention? So what my son bumped into me causing me to hairspray my eyes and now every third eyelash is stuck together making me look like Munch’s Scream?)

As soon as we crossed the threshold from ceremony to cocktail hour I grabbed a plate, but my tuxedoed Romeo pulled me from the tortellini line to inform me that he forgot to go to the bank. His eyes being now completely crossed, I took his bank card and drove to a nearby branch of our bank.  

          I decided to take the cash that the ATM spit out and change it into larger bills. There was only one teller; an acne-prone 18-year-old whom I’ll call “Kenneth,” with a falsetto voice cracking from belated puberty.

“Hello, welcome to xxxx Bank. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Kenneth, I’d like this converted into larger bills.”

“Sure, do you have an account with us?”

“I sure do, Kenneth.”

“Can I see your I.D.?”

“Sure Kenneth.” I handed him my ATM card. Except it wasn’t MY ATM card. It was my husband’s.

Kenneth: “This card says James Piccirillo.”

Me: “That’s my husband.”

Man in line behind me: “Oh, here we go!”

Kenneth: “Why do you have James Piccirillo’s card?”

Me: “Because he’s my husband.”

Kenneth: “Do you have I.D.?”

Me: “Yes, in my purse; in my car.”

Kenneth: “SECURITY!”

Man in line behind me: “I knew it!”

Me: (Turning) “Shut the **** up!”

Security: “Mam, can you come with me?”

Me: “Are you kidding me? I’m dressed for a wedding! Do I LOOK like a bank robber?” (Note: very poor choice of words.)

Fast forward. Me, Security, Assistant Manager and Kenneth waiting in conference room for Manager to return from break. Manager returns from break with predictable latte in hand, and allows Security and Kenneth to escort me to minivan to retrieve I.D. to prove I am Mrs. Piccirillo at a time when I no longer have any desire to be Mrs. Piccirillo.

          After much contemplation and whispered discussion I am released. Kenneth says, “Have a nice day! Thank you for banking with ****.”

To which I shout over my shoulder, “Go **** yourself, Kenneth!”

          Return to reception one hour fifteen minutes later—dinner in progress—a lukewarm dish of chicken breathlessly delivered to me by unenthused server. Cross-eyed husband comes over; look on my face is my secret super-power that momentarily uncrosses his eyes; terrified, he retreats to bar. While on my way to refill my club soda, the maid-of-honor has burning need to inform me that her husband was nervous because he thought he knew me, in the biblical sense, but she “checked me out” and I’m not the person he thought I was. She snorted and told me that I looked just like a whore he knew; then laughed, “You look just like a whore…” (Long laugh.) Not amused, I watched her limp tongue swat the whipped cream goatee left behind by a sexually-named shot she had just devoured. Stone sober, I am rendered absolutely speechless.   

          Moral of the story: Escape with the Mexican when you have the chance. You’d have clean windows, he wouldn’t call you names, and for an extra 20 bucks he’d probably mow your lawn.