The Drone That Stole Christmas… Trees

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Cast of Regulars (for easy reference)

• Mabel Dean Ashcroft – Owns Mabel’s Diner, keeper of coffee and opinions.

• Boot Barnes – Professional “helper,” unofficial town philosopher, owns a questionable truck.

• Pastor Harlan Peeler – Local pastor, part-time moral referee, full-time worrier.

• Clovis Strickland – Conspiracy-leaning local with strong thoughts about “Them.”

• Mayor Darlene Hensley – Mayor, paperwork warrior, mediator of nonsense.

• Trixie Jo Bartlett – Reluctant voice of reason, married to Harold.

• Harold Bartlett – Tech-ish, glasses, knows just enough to be dangerous.

• Burl “Moosejaw” Whittemore – Large man, small patience, owns the hunting cabin.

• Sheriff Peeler – Cousin to Pastor Peeler, trying to keep the peace with a county-sized headache.

• “The Nashville People” – Vague collective of newcomers, represented mainly by Tanner and Skyler.

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Act I – The First Buzzing of Christmas

By the time the first skim of frost turned the fence posts white and crunchy, Sequatchie Crossing had settled into its usual pre-Christmas rhythm:

• Folks arguing over which weekend to go get their cedar.

• Kids lobbying for “a fake one this year” like they did every year.

• Adults shutting that idea down just as hard every year.

Christmas trees in Sequatchie Crossing were not a decor decision. They were an ordeal, a test, a rite of passage. You got your boots muddy, you tore your jacket on a fence, and you swore you’d never do it this way again. And then you did it again every December until you died.

On the morning it all started, Trixie Jo Bartlett stepped out on her porch in a faded robe, coffee steaming in her hands, and squinted toward Hanging Limb Ridge.

Instead of the usual peaceful winter quiet, there was a noise:

BBBBZZZZZEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Not a chainsaw. Not a four-wheeler. Not even Clovis’s temper. This was different.

“Harold!” she called over her shoulder. “There’s something up in that sky sounds like the devil’s weed eater.”

Harold shuffled out, still in his slippers, pushing his glasses up. He listened, then shaded his eyes.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said.

“What?” Trixie asked.

He exhaled slowly.
“Those are drones.”

One swooped low enough that they both could see:

• Big carbon fiber frame

• Eight spinning rotors

• A long strap dangling beneath it

• And a giant sticker on its side:

MERRY TREE EXPRESS
NASHVILLE’S #1 DRONE-DELIVERED CHRISTMAS TREE SERVICE
“YOU PICK IT, WE ZIP IT!”

Trixie blinked twice.
“Harold. Why is there a Christmas tree delivery robot over my tomato patch?”

“That’s an octocopter.”

“I don’t care if it’s an octopus. Make it leave.”

The drone hovered, took a series of pictures of the woods beyond their house, then zipped off toward the ridge.

Trixie stared as three more rose from somewhere out of sight, like mechanical geese migrating in formation.

“Harold, I swear if them Nashville people brought robots up here for Christmas, I’m cutting the Wi-Fi cable myself.”

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Act II – Nashville Meets Sequatchie… Via App

Word traveled faster than the drones.

By mid-morning, Mabel’s Diner sounded like a hive itself.

The bell over the door jingled every thirty seconds as someone came in with another report:

• “One of ’em flew right over my pasture!”

• “I think it scanned my dog!”

• “I seen one carryin’ a whole cedar like a UFO stealing livestock!”

Mabel was pouring coffee as fast as her wrist would allow.
“This is why,” she declared, “God gave us hands, feet, and mules. So we wouldn’t need flying lawnmowers doing lumberjack work.”

At the corner table, Boot Barnes, Clovis Strickland, and Pastor Peeler were in their usual configuration: Boot halfway done with biscuits and gravy, Clovis leaning in like a televised pundit, and Pastor Peeler staring deeply into his black coffee.

Boot spoke first.
“I seen one, Mabel. Came over the ridge with a tree slung under it like a pterodactyl stole Christmas.”

Clovis nodded intensely.
“I told y’all this day was coming. First it’s ‘Alexa, play Christmas music.’ Next it’s ‘Drone, bring me a tree.’ Then it’s ‘Robot, raise my kids’ and ‘Algorithm, pick my spouse.’”

Mabel snorted. “If an algorithm picked half the men in this county, it’d be better at it than we were.”

Boot pointed out the window.
“They’re using ’em to shop for trees. Seen one stop over the woods, camera danglin’, then zip back toward them Airbnbs up on the ridge.”

Pastor Peeler finally spoke.
“So they’re… browsing with drones?”

“App-based,” Harold said from the counter, spinning his phone on the Formica like a poker chip. “City folks are using an app-PickMyPine™. See?” He held up his screen, showing a sleek interface: a satellite map, live video from drone cameras, and labeled “Tree Lots” with ratings like “Full & Fluffy” and “Rustic Asymmetrical Charm.”

Mabel leaned over. “What on earth is a ‘Minimalist Mountain Aesthetic’ tree?”

Harold squinted. “Looks like a broom with aspirations.”

Clovis slapped the table.
“I’ll tell you what’s goin’ on here. This is Outsider Convenience Culture tryin’ to colonize Christmas. You’re supposed to freeze your hindquarters off in the woods, get in an argument about which tree is better, and drag it home with a sore back and a branch in your ear. That’s how you know it’s holy.”

Pastor Peeler cleared his throat.
“Also teaches patience and perseverance.”

Boot added, “And cuss words the children ain’t supposed to repeat.”

Everyone nodded. It was tradition.

And somewhere up on the ridge, a Nashville couple in branded fleece smiled as a drone gently deposited a six-foot cedar on their porch, while they captioned it on social media:

“First Christmas in Sequatchie! Local tree, drone delivered. So authentic. #mountainlife #sustainableholiday”

Back in the diner, nobody felt particularly hashtagged or sustainable.

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Act III – A Very Merry Catastrophe

The drone crew, to their credit, had done a test run the week before, and it went fine. It was the scaling up part that went poorly.

Incident #1 – The Flying Cedar of Piggly Wiggly

At 10:04 AM on Saturday, one of the larger Merry Tree Express drones attempted to lift a cedar tree significantly heavier than its rated capacity. It strained, wobbling, got about three feet off the ground, and then, in front of half the town in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, listed sideways like a drunk uncle.

The strap slipped.

The tree flew.

It spun end-over-end and landed squarely in the back of Mrs. Winnie Luan’s pickup truck with a thud that rattled her dented tailgate.

She flung her hands in the air.
“Now which one of y’all is throwin’ timber at me? I ain’t even bought ham yet!”

Boot Barnes, who was walking out carrying sweet tea and a bag of ice, shielded his head.
“Ma’am, you’ve been blessed with a drive-thru Christmas tree.”

Mrs. Winnie Luan eyed the cedar. “Well… it is kind of pretty. Reckon I’ll keep it. But if that thing puts sap on my feed bags, I’m sending the bill to whoever owns those robot helicopters.”

Incident #2 – The Nativity Takeover

At 10:21 AM, a slightly off-course drone clipped a low-hanging power line near the courthouse. It didn’t crash, but it spun in a slow, horrifying pirouette across the square.

Sheriff Peeler watched from his office window, helpless.
“No, no, no-don’t you dare…”

The drone dropped its tree right into the town nativity scene.

• Joseph disappeared.

• Two shepherds went down like bowling pins.

• The donkey figurine lost an ear.

• Baby Jesus, miraculously, remained perfectly centered and unharmed in the manger, cedar branches forming a halo around him.

Boot, now on his second errand of the morning, stared from the sidewalk.
“Well, if that ain’t an omen.”

Pastor Peeler walked up, eyes wide.
“I’m… not sure what kind, but yes.”

Incident #3 – The Moosejaw Engagement

At 11:03 AM, one drone assigned to deliver a tree to “Cabin B – Scenic Ridge Retreat” overshot the GPS coordinate by about 200 yards.

It landed on the porch of Burl “Moosejaw” Whittemore’s hunting cabin instead.

Moosejaw was seated inside, cleaning his rifle and feeling suspicious about the world at large, when he heard the mechanical whine and a thump on his front deck.

He opened the door, saw the drone adjusting its straps around a cedar tree, and processed exactly none of the context.

“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered. “They found me.”

He raised his rifle, fired a warning shot over the machine.

The drone, in response, made a small adjustment in altitude and chirped in a friendly electronic tone.

Moosejaw did not categorize this as friendly.

He fired again.

Drone lost a rotor.

By the time the fourth shot rang out, the drone had keeled over in pieces, cedar rolling halfway down his steps.

Sheriff Peeler arrived about ten minutes later, lights flashing on the patrol truck.

“Burl,” Sheriff Peeler said, stepping out. “You want to tell me why there’s a $3,000 pile of city robot parts all over your porch?”

“Defending my homestead,” Moosejaw replied. “From air invasion.”

“That was a Christmas tree delivery drone.”

Moosejaw frowned. “Well. It ain’t delivering anymore.”

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Act IV – Sheriff, 911, and the Drone Hotlines

By early afternoon, Sheriff Peeler’s office looked like the command center for a small, confused war.

His whiteboard, normally reserved for:

• Speed trap schedules

• Lost dog reports

• Church supper parking complaints

…now had a new section titled:

DRONE-RELATED NONSENSE

Under it, he’d written in marker:

1. Tree in Piggly Wiggly truck

2. Nativity incident – possible sacrilege?

3. Moosejaw vs. Drone (Moosejaw 1, Drone 0)

4. Reported hat theft (verify?)

His dispatcher, Lottie Grace, was picking up calls as fast as they came in.

“Sequatchie County, what’s your emergency? … No sir, the drone can’t ‘legally commandeer your chimney.’ That’s not a thing. … No, ma’am, a drone is not listed in the book of Revelation by name. … I’m sure.”

Sheriff Peeler rubbed his temples as another line lit up.
“Lottie, what’s that one?”

She listened, then covered the receiver.
“Guy says a drone scanned his backyard and now his inflatable Santa’s possessed.”

Sheriff sighed. “Tell him to unplug it and plug it back in.”

He stared at his whiteboard again. The numbers didn’t lie: whatever this was, it had become a town problem.

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Act V – Town Hall – The Drone Summit

The emergency town meeting was called for 3 PM at Town Hall.

Sequatchie Crossing residents showed up like it was a championship game:

• Locals in worn jackets, camouflage hats, and work boots.

• The Nashville transplants in coordinated flannels, technical hiking pants, and stylish beanies.

• And one mule tied to a parking sign, because Boot “didn’t trust the truck this week.”

Inside, Mayor Darlene Hensley stood at the podium, flanked by stacks of paperwork titled:

EMERGENCY HOLIDAY TECHNOLOGY ORDINANCES (DRAFT)

She adjusted the microphone.
“Thank you all for comin’ on short notice. We are here to discuss drone-assisted Christmas tree harvesting and delivery.”

From the front row, Clovis shouted, “We’re here to BAN it!”

Applause rippled from the locals’ side of the aisle.

“Now, now,” Mayor Hensley said, holding up a hand, “we will hear both sides.”

The Nashville delegation sat together, clutching stainless steel mugs that said things like “Cocoa, But Make It Ethical.”

Their chosen speaker, Tanner, stood up. He had a carefully trimmed beard, a Patagonia vest, and the earnest expression of a man ready to ask a town to reconsider its 200-year-old traditions.

“First, we want to say we love it here,” Tanner began. “We came to Sequatchie Crossing because it’s authentic, beautiful, and real.”

Clovis whispered loudly, “Then stop trying to Amazon it.”

Tanner continued.
“We respect local customs. But for us, drone-delivered trees are part of how we live sustainably. We’re using electric-powered delivery instead of trucks, optimizing harvest patterns, and minimizing soil impact.”

Boot raised his hand. “What does any of that have to do with dropping Joseph in the nativity?”

“We’ve already filed an incident report,” Tanner said quickly. “Our insurance will cover the shepherd damage. But the bigger picture here is innovation. We’re not replacing your traditions. We’re adding a new one.”

“What’s wrong with the old one?” Mabel cut in.

A woman beside Tanner stood up-Skyler, wearing a color-coordinated scarf that matched her enamel camping mug.

“We’re remote workers,” she said. “We log into jobs in big cities but live here because we love small-town life. It’s just… we’re used to doing things by app. We thought drone tree delivery would fit right in.”

“Fit right in?” Clovis said. “We barely got used to grocery pickup. Last thing this town needs is fully automated Christmas.”

Pastor Peeler stood slowly.
“Friends, let’s not lose our heads,” he said. “The Good Book doesn’t mention drones, but it does mention loving your neighbor. Even when your neighbor orders a robot to get their holiday decor.”

A murmur of reluctant agreement went through the room.

Mayor Hensley tapped her pencil on the stack of draft ordinances.
“We have two problems here: one, safety. Two, spirit. Our tradition ain’t just the tree itself. It’s the going to get it, together, with fussing and falling and all that mess.”

Tanner nodded. “We hear that. Maybe there’s a way to do both?”

Clovis leaned back, arms crossed. “Only way I see is if the drones get sent to Nashville and we go back to doing things like the Lord and Tractor Supply intended.”

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Act VI – The Drones Begin to Sing

Before anyone could fire back, a sound rolled through the old windows of Town Hall:

BBBBZZZZZEEEEEEEEEEEEEE… but in Harmony.

Everyone turned to look.

Out through the tall, wavy glass panes, they could see them: a full swarm of drones approaching the square in loose formation, blinking with little red and green lights.

“Oh, Lord,” muttered Mabel. “They’re staging a coup.”

The nearest drone slowed outside the big double doors and descended to just above eye level. On its underside, a small speaker clicked on.

To everyone’s astonishment, it played the first few notes of “O Holy Night.”

Not perfectly. Not even well. But recognizably.

Boot’s jaw dropped.
“The robots… they’re caroling.”

Behind it, more drones hovered, a chorus of slightly mistuned whirs. Some joined in with their own tinny speakers, mixing in fragments of:

• “Silent Night”

• “Jingle Bells”

• Something that might have been “Carol of the Bells” or a printer dying.

The effect was bizarre and somehow tender. The whole town-locals and newcomers-filed out onto the square.

Mabel crossed her arms. “If one of them tries to harmonize with me, I’m shootin’ it down.”

The Merry Tree Express technician, a young guy named Kyle with a beanie and a tablet, jogged up, breathless.

“Sorry!” he called out. “The drones weren’t supposed to… uh… initiate performance mode.”

“Performance mode?” Sheriff Peeler asked.

Kyle winced.
“We’ve been testing a feature where they sing carols while delivering trees. Uplifts customer engagement. But the update hit the system early.”

“So this is accidental Christmas?” Boot asked.

“I mean…” Kyle shrugged. “The algorithm thinks it’s festive.”

And then, as if offended by being described as merely “festive,” the lead drone blasted the climactic line of “O Holy Night” with such mechanical passion that even Clovis was briefly speechless.

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Act VII – A Compromise in the Snow

Some turning point happens in small towns without a speech-just a collective exhale.

There, in the square, with speakers crackling and cedar scent in the air from the wrecked nativity tree, something shifted.

A Nashville kid, about eight, stepped forward, clutching a tablet.

“Can we pick our tree from the air,” she asked, “and then go help cut it down? Like… together?”

That did something to the adults’ circuitry.

Mayor Hensley studied her, then looked at the locals, then at Tanner and Skyler.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “we’ve been thinking about this all-or-nothing when it could be… all-and-something.”

From the crowd, Boot said, “Ma’am, I ain’t great at math, but I think I follow.”

The Mayor walked a little closer to the drones, their red and green lights blinking in the early evening winter light.

“All right,” she said. “Here’s my proposal.”

She raised her voice so everyone could hear:

1. No unsupervised drones – “If a drone’s carrying a tree, there has to be a human chase vehicle on the ground. That way if something goes sideways, we got someone to holler at.”

2. No tree deliveries over town square – “Y’all can’t be dropping spruce in the nativity or near traffic. Trees must land on private property with clear space.”

3. Sunday Afternoons Only – “Drones can only operate for tree delivery between one and five on Sundays after church. That gives us our ritual of going to the woods on Saturdays unbothered.”

4. Local Co-op Option – “Any local who wants to can sign up to have their land used for app-based tree selection. Out-of-towners pay a premium. Locals get a cut.”

5. Tradition Clause – “For every drone-assisted tree a Nashville family gets, they have to participate at least once in an old-fashioned tree hunt with a local family-boots, sap, fussing and all.”

The square went quiet.

Tanner turned to Skyler. They whispered a moment, then nodded.

“That sounds… fair,” Tanner said. “And kind of amazing, actually. We get both experiences. The app and the adventure.”

Mabel eyed him. “You gonna walk a mile in muddy boots?”

“If that’s what it takes to belong here,” he said, “yes.”

Clovis snorted. “I want that sentence notarized.”

Pastor Peeler stepped forward.
“Sounds like we just invented the world’s first hybrid spiritual-physical Christmas tree co-op.”

Boot said, “And a revenue stream.”

Mayor Hensley, sensing the moment, banged her gavel on the nearest flat surface, which happened to be a box of old hymnals.

“Motion on the floor,” she said. “All in favor of the Drone Christmas Tree Compromise, say ‘aye.’”

A chorus of ayes rang out from both sides.

“All opposed?”

Clovis hesitated, looked at the Nashville families, then at the drones still humming softly, and sighed.

“I abstain on account of bein’ deeply conflicted,” he said. “But if one of those drones brings me a pecan pie from Mabel’s, I might reconsider.”

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Act VIII – The First Hybrid Tree Hunt

The next Sunday after church, the compromise was tested.

The square looked like a Norman Rockwell painting run through a modern filter:

• Locals in flannel, walking in groups, carrying saws.

• Nashville folks in sleek boots, some carrying hand warmers the size of smartphones.

• Drones hovering politely at their designated altitude, waiting for assignments.

Boot took charge of one group, which included Tanner, Skyler, and their app-loving eight-year-old, Lily.

“All right,” Boot said, pointing at Lily’s tablet. “Show me how this contraption thinks it can out-pick a sequatchie-hardened eyeball.”

Lily tapped the screen. A live drone feed appeared: ridges, fields, and patches of cedar trees.

“You can pinch and zoom,” she said proudly. “Then you tap which tree you want and it marks the GPS.”

Boot frowned, leaning closer.
“That one,” he said, pointing at a full, slightly crooked cedar. “That’s a good tree. Got character. Like Joe Diffie’s haircut in ’92.”

Lily giggled and tapped it. The app put a glowing ring around the tree on screen.

“Now it marks it on the map,” she explained. “And the drone can show us where it is.”

“Or,” Boot said, “we can just walk behind it and use our God-given legs. Lead on, robot.”

They followed the drone through a shallow creek, up a gentle slope, and into a glade of cedars. When they reached the tree, Boot slapped the trunk affectionately.

“See,” he told Tanner, “you can use your little sky camera, but at the end of the day, you still gotta wrap your arms around the thing and commit.”

Together they cut it:

• Tanner holding the trunk.

• Lily brushing sawdust off her coat with delight.

• Boot doing most of the actual sawing, providing commentary the whole time.

When the tree was finally free, the drone lowered its straps. Boot watched with his arms crossed, nodding slowly.

“All right, I admit that’s kind of impressive,” he said as the tree lifted, suspended, heading back toward the road. “It’s like having a really loud, really literal angel on top of your tree.”

Tanner grinned. “So we’re good?”

“We’re… working toward good,” Boot replied. “We’ll see how you handle the sap problem.”

Across the valley, Mabel had partnered up with another Nashville couple. She insisted they ride in the back of her truck to “get the full pine experience” while a drone scouted ahead.

“You want authenticity?” she shouted over the engine. “This is it. Bugs, cold air, and the constant awareness that my transmission is one prayer away from quitting.”

The Nashville woman, hair whipping in the wind, laughed.
“This is amazing!”

Her husband nodded, eyes watering from the cold.
“I get it now. This is actually… better than delivery.”

Mabel smirked. “Careful, honey. That’s how this town gets you.”

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Act IX – The Drones That Stayed

Over the next couple of weeks, something unexpected emerged:

Sequatchie Crossing began to enjoy the drones.

Kids at the elementary school took to waving at them as they flew overhead. The drones, once updated and properly configured, blinked their red and green navigation lights in little patterns that almost felt like waves back.

Moosejaw, after being informed he was financially responsible for the drone he shot, agreed-grudgingly-to host a “Drone Safety Workshop” on his property, which mostly involved him demonstrating what not to do while Kyle, the technician, tried not to pass out.

Clovis developed a weird truce with the machines. He still claimed they were step one in the rise of “Corporate Sky Surveillance,” but he also started ordering small packages delivered to the edge of his property “just to see how they behave.” If anyone pointed out the contradiction, he said it was “counterintelligence.”

One afternoon, as snow flurries began to make the fields look powdered and soft, Pastor Peeler found himself watching a drone lower a tree into the yard of a Nashville family while they stood outside, bundled up, hands on the trunk, steadying it.

The little boy in the family turned, saw Pastor Peeler watching from the road, and waved.

“Thank you!” the boy called. “We never did this where we used to live.”

“Which part?” Pastor Peeler asked, walking closer. “The tree or the flying robot?”

“Both!” the boy said happily.

The pastor laughed. “Well then. Welcome to Sequatchie Crossing. We try to do things the hard way-sometimes with new complications.”

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Act X – The Surprise Ending

The real surprise came on Christmas Eve.

The town gathered as always in the square for carols. The nativity had been repaired; Joseph and the shepherds had fresh paint and slightly traumatized expressions. Mabel had brought hot chocolate. The air smelled like cedar, hay, and cinnamon.

Mayor Hensley stepped up to the portable PA system.
“Thank y’all for coming. It’s been a… interesting Christmas season. We’ve seen tradition, we’ve seen innovation, and we’ve seen what happens when both collide over the Piggly Wiggly.”

Laughter rolled over the crowd.

“And yet,” she continued, “here we all are. Trees up, lights on, nobody got decapitated by a rogue Douglas fir. I’d call that a win.”

As the carolers began “Silent Night,” something moved in the sky.

A small group of drones rose from just beyond the square, their frames decorated with garlands and tiny battery-powered fairy lights. Someone-Kyle, obviously-had dressed them up.

They floated to the outskirts of the gathering and hovered there, respectfully distant, lights soft.

Then, quietly, they began to play along.

Not loud. Not leading. Just a faint, synthesized harmony underneath the human voices. The sound was still a little tinny, still a little off, but this time it felt like backup singers instead of invaders.

Boot elbowed Clovis.
“You gonna yell about the surveillance choir?”

Clovis stared for a long second, then shook his head.
“Nah,” he said. “I figure if the robots wanna worship, too, I ain’t gonna be the one to stop ’em.”

Pastor Peeler, hearing that, smiled to himself and sang a little louder.

Across the way, Lily squeezed her parents’ hands and whispered, “This is my favorite Christmas.”

Her mom nodded. “Mine too.”

Her dad looked up at the drones, then at the stars beyond them.
“Didn’t think I’d ever say this,” he murmured, “but I’m glad we had to walk in the mud first.”

Snow started to fall-not much, just enough to flock the trees and powder the tops of hats. It turned the drones’ lights into little halos.

For one moment, Sequatchie Crossing held:

• The old ways and the new.

• Sawdust and software.

• Sore backs and smooth apps.

• Cedars dragged on tarps and cedars carried on whirring rotors.

And instead of fighting about which way was right, they just… sang.

The drones recorded it all, their tiny cameras capturing a small town that had every excuse to split in half and chose, however awkwardly and noisily, to share Christmas instead.

They would send the footage back to Nashville corporate, which would probably mislabel it as “User Engagement Success-Rural Micro-Market Penetration.”

But in Sequatchie Crossing, they’d remember it as:

“That First Christmas the Robots Helped, and Nobody Went to Jail.”

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Disclaimer

This story is a work of fiction and satire set in the imaginary town of Sequatchie Crossing. Any resemblance to real people, places, tech companies, drone services, nativity casualties, or municipal ordinances is entirely coincidental. No actual robots were granted legal rights, and no real drones were shot down by Moosejaw-at least not in this particular universe.

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At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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