Of all the ones that stood in our living room year after year, there is one Christmas tree I remember very well.
In my early years, we always had an artificial tree. It was one of those ’70s jobs with wire branches and hardly believable pine needles. Then in the ’80s we went big time with a plastic tree that was a huge, giant pain in the stocking. The branches had tips that were Lego-like, and when we hauled it from the attic and brought it down, we’d find that many had fallen off.
Then there was the Christmas light dance, where we would spend hours unraveling strands that somehow had woven together in the box over the past 12 months. There was one kind with rounded tops and sharp ends that hurt while we prepared to hang them. Dad would deliver his Christmas cursing, like a traditional carol. For years he has threatened to have Christmas in Nantucket. Still hasn’t happened.
So then we went retro and began to put up a real tree. It was very exciting, indeed. But once that happened, the ante was upped every year thereafter. The trees got thicker and more lush. Taller and fuller. The smell of a fresh tree filled the house, which was made for Christmas. It was a Tudor-style home, with high ceilings and big rooms with natural wood floors. A real tree just made sense.
One year, we wanted to make a power move with the tree. My brother threw down the gauntlet when he happened upon a Douglas Fir at a garden store. It was generally understood that the nicest trees were at these types of places, but you paid dearly. The tree stood proud among its puny neighbors, sticking its sap-covered chest out, daring a family to try and hang lights from its brawny arms.
I don’t remember the price, but I think they charged by the needle. My brother footed the bill. We strapped the tree to the roof after we wrestled it into submission and made for home. I could smell it inside the car, and was almost overcome by authentic essence of pine, which was drowning out the cheap air freshener of the same name that hung from the car’s cigarette lighter.
When we got home, it was clear we would have some jiggering to do to get the behemoth through the front door without stripping its branches of thousands of tiny leaves. Their loss was unavoidable, however, and they littered the hallway. Erecting the tree while keeping it in the holder was a Christmas challenge we faced head-on, but we got it done. We stepped back to admire. My mother gasped. It was incredible. The branches, a healthy, deep green. The steroid-strong trunk, invisible through the foliage.
Once decorated, it emanated a force field of Christmas spirit that sucked in anyone who cast eyes on it. We had to move the couch further than normal for it to fit in the corner, but it was worth the effort. My brother was proud of that tree. He done good.
I’d rather not talk about taking it down weeks later. I’m sure the new owners of the house are still finding its remnants because, as proud as the tree was in life it was equally strong in death. It wanted to leave its mark—about 200,000 times and in every crevice of the first floor.
But more than that, I don’t want to think about dropping it on the curb, chucking out the best Christmas tree we ever had and officially closing the book on another Christmas. That is rarely a good feeling.
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