Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree.
In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.
~Larry Wilde, The Merry Book of Christmas
Today, I am going to share a story with you. It’s the story of a perfect family—Mom, Dad and son—who go into the forest to chop down the perfect Christmas tree. They sip hot cocoa as they wander through the trees, searching for a fabulous nine-foot specimen with lots of branches to hold their heirloom ornaments. When they find just the right tree, they stop, pose for pictures and then saw it down. They tie the tree to their truck and sing Christmas carols all the way home.
And once they get there, the family strings popcorn and lights throughout the tree. Then they hang their precious ornaments from its branches, telling the history of each one as it is hung.
The words above are complete fiction. I don’t know who that family is, but I do know one thing: those people aren’t related to me. You see, in my family, getting the tree is a little bit different.
Actually, it’s a lot different.
First there’s that whole cocoa thing. Sure, we’ve got cocoa to sip. But we have two thermoses—one that holds my special blend so that I stay happy through the entire trip and don’t notice that it’s raining, cold and/or windy. No, once I have a few sips of my special cocoa, I’m happy and warm, sometimes even a bit silly.
Then there’s the search for the tree. I don’t know about you, but the perfect tree has never just popped up in front of me. Instead, we wander for what seems like days looking for a tree we can all agree on. Finally, someone will need to use the restroom and, at that point, we just pick the tree we’re closest to and cut it down.
Which brings us to the saw. The minute Junior sees it, he grabs it and runs through the tree farm yelling, “Watch out! It’s Freddy vs. Jason!” By the time we catch up to him, I’m out of breath and nearly out of my special hot cocoa.
And once the saw is confiscated and the tree is cut, there’s the question of which way the tree will fall. Look, maybe it’s me, but if the person doing the sawing is saying, “look out on the left” wouldn’t you wonder whose left that person is talking about? Is it my left or Harry’s left? I usually have it figured it out by the time the tree falls on my head. All I can say is thank goodness for my special cocoa since it dulls the pain.
Once the darned tree is tied down to the truck, it’s time to drive home. Okay, at this point we could sing carols, but honestly, not one member of my family can carry a tune. And besides, we’re too busy making sure that the tree doesn’t fall out of the truck and onto the highway to remember the words to “Silent Night.”
Once we get home, we drag the tree into the house and jam it in the stand. That’s about the time we discover that 1) driving home removed every single needle from the tree; and 2) the trunk is crooked and the tree looks like a nine-foot tall, bald, question mark.
Let’s not even get into heirloom ornaments. Suffice it to say that on Junior’s second Christmas—the one where he had just started to walk—he discovered the tree. He would stand next to it, watching the lights and gazing at the collection of handmade crystal balls that I had lovingly collected. And then one day, Junior removed several of those lovely crystal ornaments and used them to demonstrate his newly discovered throwing skills.
And we’ve had plastic ever since.
And that is the true story of how a true family goes out and cuts down a tree. Of course, this true family got a little tired of the tradition—so this year we bought a fake tree. Its trunk is straight and it has most of its little plastic needles clinging to it. But I still sipped my special cocoa when we set it up in the living room.
After all, there are some traditions you should never abandon.
