But, I am not putting up a tree this year. Actually, I haven’t put up a tree for a number of years. It’s not because I can’t afford one. It’s not because I don’t have the time. It’s not because I don’t have the room. And it's definitely not because I don't find them beautiful. It’s just because.
When I was a kid, we always had a real tree in the house at Christmas time. We usually bought our tree from the Kiwanis who set up business in the far end of the IGA parking lot every December. We never spent more than five dollars. Anything more than that, well, you were just showing off and besides that, we lived in Michigan, for cripe’s sake. Pine trees were everywhere and are still. Actually, there are several Christmas tree farms near where I live. They're really low maintenance concerns because you don’t hafta build a fence around them to keep them from wandering away. A Christmas tree pretty much stays where you plant it.
Anyhoo. My mother and I would go pick out a tree about two weeks before Christmas. She always insisted on a Scotch pine because it had the nicest smell. The Kiwanis guy would shove it into the trunk of what ever Pontiac Dad was driving that year and Mom and I would bring it home, the trunk lid bobbing up and down the whole way because we always forgot to bring a piece of rope to tie the lid down.
When we got home, we would bring the tree into the ‘mud room’ and stick it in a bucket of water. We’d leave it there over night. Mom said it was so the tree could relax and get used to being inside because trees were outside things and it was difficult for them to make the change. She said even though the tree had been cut away from its root, its spirit was still alive and it was our responsibility now to care for that spirit as long as we could. Yep. My Mom was an old Injun hippie from way back before hippies were invented.
Well, that tree would soak up that entire bucket of water and the whole house would have a lovely pine scent by morning. Mom was right about Scotch pines having the nicest smell. They also have the crookedest trunk. The air would turn blue with cuss words while my Dad tried to fit that crooked trunk into the tree stand. It was my job to stand exactly ten feet away, and not move an inch, and tell him when the tree was straight up and down and yeah, I know it was a ruse to keep me out of his way!
Getting the tree to stand up straight was a very long process and usually took until lunchtime, whereupon whatever direction the tree was leaning in, it was forever to remain that way as was decreed by Dad. That was the only day of the year Dad would get to have a beer with his lunch. But, an amazing thing would happen while Dad and I were slurping up our noodle soup. When we went back to look at the tree, it was straight! Mom would be standing next to it, smiling, telling us what a great job we had done.
Somehow, the tree got decorated. I remember stringing popcorn together…yards and yards of it…and I was allowed to put on a few ornaments, but, Mom did most of it. Her special touch was to put those long strands of shiny, silvery, ‘icicles’ on every last branch. She would put them on, one by one, placed just so. Our trees always shimmered.
And finally, Mom would cover up the tree stand not with a fancy tree skirt, but with one or two plain white sheets. She would fold and fuss with them, spread them out and around, and when she was done, it looked like our tree was standing in a drift of freshly fallen snow.
After many years I came to realize decorating a Christmas tree was Mom's ‘thing’…it was what brought her some kind of personal happiness. I didn’t think about that back then, though. I was a kid and big thoughts would come later. Back then, it was enough just to be awed by the beautiful tree that was inside our house, that smelled so nice, that shimmered and sparkled in a drift of snow. I couldn’t wait until after supper and it would be dark enough to plug in the lights. Wow! There just wasn’t anything more spectacular than a Christmas tree lit up like, well, like a Christmas tree.
About a week after Christmas, we would take the tree down. Everything would come off and be packed away except for some strands of tinsel and the strings of popcorn. They stayed put. Then, we’d take that tree outside and stand it up against the garage. Mom would tie on little pieces of suet and the birds that didn’t fly south for the winter had a nice place to come for a feed. It was always entertaining to watch the brilliant red cardinals and noisy blue jays visit that tree throughout the winter and spring months and always a delight to spot a string or two of tinsel woven into a new nest.
By the first of May most of the needles had fallen off the tree and landed directly on the soil beneath, where in a few weeks time some acid loving flowers would bloom. On Memorial Day, what remained of our tree became part of the yard and garden cleanup bonfire. Its spirit was finally let go. We had done our best by it and had not been wasteful.
When I was nineteen, my Mom died, and afterward, putting up Christmas trees became such an emotionally painful chore for me, that I stopped. It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I rediscovered the joy of it. Now that they are grown and out of the house, once again, I don’t put up a tree at Christmastime. I enjoy looking at the decorated trees belonging to other people though, and when they ask me about mine, I tell them I like to keep my Christmas trees outside and that I occasionally have them professionally decorated with snowflakes. They laugh and let it go and I am glad now that I am old enough that I don’t have to explain every little eccentricity I exhibit.But, I’ve saved all the tree decorations; I even have a few ornaments that were kept by my mother. When there are small children in the family again, I will resume putting up a tree. We will decorate it together and as we place the strands of icicles, one by one, just so, on the branches of a Scotch pine, I will tell them about the beautiful trees their great-grandmother made.
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