Several years ago, my husband Pete and I went to the Dark Side. We bought an artificial Christmas tree.
It took nearly 40 years to get over what I once thrilled to: the romance of cutting down a live tree as part of the whole holiday experience. But at the end I had no illusions left about tramping through snow, rain or cold, to pick a tree and bring it home. Then we would sweat as we screwed the tree to the heavy base and, inevitably, argue over stringing the lights.
Do I miss it? I miss the scent of fresh pine emanating from the family room. Because we usually got a Concolor Fir with its distinctive citrus aroma, it made the house smell lovely. The long-needled tree looked beautiful once the lights were hung (without divorce) and my mother’s precious ornaments gleamed from within its branches. After New Year’s Day, we would bring the tree, denuded of ornaments and lights, to a swampy area of our property we dubbed the Christmas tree graveyard. There, we would add the tree to the skeletal remains of all the others, and take a moment to view the bones of Christmas past.
Yet, by 2019 I was pretty much done with the whole thing. I discovered that my mom’s ornaments also look pretty on an artificial tree, which takes five minutes to put up and which we bought with the lights already strung, thus avoiding marital stress.
Frankly, I’m surprised that it took me so long to throw in the towel.
There was that memorable experience 30 years ago, when we traveled 20 miles to find the perfect tree during an intense rainstorm. We drove to a very popular, but out-of-the-way tree farm. The setting was, shall we say, rustic.
I was 110 months pregnant. I thought the experience of going over dirt roads in a conga line of traffic with other Christmas Tree Warriors would send me into premature labor. (It did not. My son was born nearly a month later, overdue.) But the cold rain and the grey skies sent me into a hormone-fueled rage. I’m pretty sure Pete cut down the first tree he saw, alone and in haste, while I fumed in the car.
Most of the time, though, I loved the whole process. One time Pete and I were both carried away with enthusiasm. We got a tree so big we had a tough time just wrestling it onto the back deck. I called a neighbor, a farmer, and asked him to help us get the behemoth in the house. He came right over, waved us away, lifted the tree as though it were a toothpick and carried it in the family room himself.
That settled it. Going forward we stopped purchasing a fir the size of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, if only to avoid being embarrassed once again.
And then, there was the reaction to the tree from the other inhabitants of the house.
The cats.
We’ve always had cats. Some we chose; others picked us. But since we live in the country, cats have a job. They keep the inevitable population of mice to manageable levels. Most of our cats didn’t give the tree a second glance. That was before we had Kiko, the Wonder Cat, and now, Queen of the Barn.
Before Kiko got so disgusted with our two golden retrievers last year that she decamped permanently to live in my barn office, she looked forward to occasionally wreaking havoc upon the tree. She’s always been a climber. And the lights were a delightful challenge. Especially as a kitten, when she was too small and quick to catch, she would shimmy up the tree and sway in triumph near the top. Once she ripped down some lights and then the little culprit fell asleep among them. But an artificial tree hasn’t offered the same temptation, perhaps because it doesn’t give the satisfaction of a live trunk to climb ever upwards.
The best story I have about Christmas trees, though, dates from when I was little and my family of eight (parents and six kids) lived in low-income projects in my hometown of Buffalo, N.Y. My family didn’t own a car, and my father walked far afield to find an outdoor lot selling Christmas trees so he could bring home one.
Purchase made, Dad realized he could not easily lug it home. So he waited for a bus, and when it stopped, he entered, hauling the tree. Before the stare of the disbelieving bus driver. Dad put his fare in the change box, and when the driver motioned to the tree and said, “Are you kidding me?”, Dad pulled out more change.
“Here’s the fare for my big, green friend,” he said. Dad sat down while the other passengers laughed and applauded, and the driver, shaking his head, sighed and pulled away from the curb. It was the season, after all.
Maura, I feel like just about everything you write, I feel connected to the story. Your "tree" story reminded me of a really fun practice I engaged in right after the official Christmas each year. My neighbors who live in a hundred plus year old farmhouse always would have a glorious huge tree. For whatever reason, they would take it down immediately the day after Christmas. I decided that they should just move it to my deck, and I would decorate it for a couple more months. It was such great fun to see the expressions on friends' faces when they would come to dinner in late January or mid-February, and I would light up the tree. My neighbors have two wonderful sons, who are more like my grandsons, and they would deliver the tree and set it up for me. The older son actually has earned his doctorate in forestry and teaches now at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg. I made a little 4 minute video of them delivering the tree one year, so if you like a brief entertainment, here's the link: https://youtu.be/WQwOqDaV4H8?si=GXY7FuZA-ZGw_soj
I do like the smell of a fresh fir tree! I have given up on the artificial tree and decorating the last few years. I enjoy seeing it at other friend’s houses, but I just can’t seem to find the energy to put up our own tree. There are lots of reasons, most only have memories for me that I would just like to keep packed away.
I look forward to New Years every year. Starting fresh and getting ready for spring planting!