Tall Tales of Trimming Trees

Never worry about the size of your Christmas tree. In the eyes of children, they are all 30 feet tall.”

~ Larry Wilde

“I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects.”   ~ Charles Dickens

“You know,” I said to Cora, “I've been thinking more and more about getting an artificial tree.” 

“Yeah, we aren't getting any younger and a real tree is a lot of work.”

“Wanna stop by Home Depot and just look?” 

This was our conversation as we pulled out of our street headed for the local Christmas tree lot. 

When I was a kid my parents held artificial trees in contempt.  Easy enough to do back then, when artificial trees were strange looking aluminum structures in ghastly, garish colors; pink, silver and blue.  Christmas tree shopping is one of the few things that's not seen much change since I was a kid.  We took the half hour or so drive to one of the lots on El Camino Real near downtown San Mateo.  A fellow with a 10 foot ruler followed a few steps behind us as we tiptoed through the mud created by the rain that we always got then and never seem to get now.  We followed the ritual that every family has followed since the 1840s when the tannebaum became a saleable commodity.  Dad would grab a likely candidate by the trunk and tilt it and turn it as we inspected it for any flaws that might disqualify it from adorning our living room.  The tree had to be full and without any conspicuous gaps in the branches and it had to stand straight.  Size didn't really matter.  Six foot was just fine because in the 60s cathedral ceilings were something that only the folks in nearby, ritzy Hillsborough had.  Our plebian ceiling topped out at 8 feet.  Once we found a likely candidate the fellow with the ruler stepped up and measured the tree, my mom watching carefully to make sure he didn't add phantom inches.  He wrote the tree's height and price on a slip of paper for my parents to take to the cashier.  Once the tree was ours dad stuffed it in the back of our big, clunky Mercury station wagon. 

 From my parents circa 1955

Once the tree got home there was the annual Christmas rite of wedging the tree into the water stand.  There was twisting and turning and banging and grunting, as the little sapling that we’d once greeted into our home with such reverence a few minutes before was now reduced to a “goddamned sonofabitch,” by the red faced, vein popping old man.  This is a tradition that the old man gratefully, if not solemnly, passed on to me when I became head of the household.  Many were the times that I cursed the tree and the entire season itself as I tried to cram a 4 ½ inch diameter trunk into a 4 inch stand.  Hacking and bashing in the cold garage at the too thick trunk I would spew a toxic stream of billingsgate at the piney little bastard until it was finally secure in the stand.  Then I would come into the house smelling like a pine forest and get back in the holiday spirit by pouring myself some eggnog and bourbon; oftentimes dispensing with the eggnog.  I've never seen my son insert tree in stand at his home so I don’t know if the tradition has passed to the next generation.  I doubt it.  Blaspheming a Christmas tree doesn't seem to be his style.   

Walking into Home Depot we notice their outdoor display of fresh trees; hmm, nice trees and reasonably priced too.  We pause, give them a quick once over, maybe a twice and three times over and go inside.  There’s a full range of artificial trees; from pre-lit bushes in planters to 8 foot ersatz noble firs.  We walk around the displays, feel the scentless needles, walk around a bit more and then pause.  I sigh; a lot.  Something about this doesn't seem right.  Seems unnatural.  Which I suppose is natural – the trees after all are, well not natural.

“They look okay…I guess.  But they are kind of expensive,” I offer.

Cora, ever the accountant reminds me that we’d get the money back in a couple years of not buying fresh trees.  Okay, there’s one point in favor of the fake tree.  I look at the base of one of the trees.  No more bashing at trunks.  No more coming in from the garage smelling like the sap that’s up to my elbows.  Cora won’t be sweeping needles 10 times a day and the fire hazard would be nil. 

When we moved into our current home we couldn't wait to get a gigantic tree to grace our front window with the cathedral ceiling.  That is until we found that those tall pines are worth their weight in gold, frankincense and myrrh.  After a few years of big ticket trees our family wise man, or, well, accountant / boss put a stop to having giant sequoias in the living room.  The wife decreed they were not in the holiday budget.  That was fine with me.  I found that the amount of tree trunk bashing increases in direct proportion to the height of the tree.

Once the tree was up and my blood pressure back down the family would adorn the tree accompanied by Christmas music on the stereo (I guess they call them sound systems now) and cookies and eggnog set out on the table.  Each ornament was hung with careful consideration, making sure that it was placed in just the perfect place.  Ornaments commemorating a family event faced the living room while plain glass and plastic balls faced the corner.  We have a flat glass ornament etched with a candle that every year the kids would argue over.  The idea was to place it in just the right position in front of one of the tree lights to highlight the etched flame.

Some of those fake trees come complete with lights; definitely a double edged sword.  I would be spared the work of stringing lights on the tree but what would happen when the string burns out?  New tree?  Christmas lights have a disgustingly short life.  We continue to circle the display, talking up the virtues of a plastic tree. Finally I call my daughter and ask her opinion.  “Well it’s your house.  Do what you want.”  There was a pause and then she added, “But you better tell Matthew.”  That last statement recalls the time I broke the back window and my mom told me I would be the one to tell dad. There is probably only one person who keeps Christmas more reverently than our son and that would be Santa Claus.  I called him.  “We’re inside Home Depot looking at Christmas trees,” I tell him.  “INSIDE,” I stress, so that he gets the idea.  A long pause and then he wags a verbal finger of admonishment at me; “You know how I feel about those.  But it’s your house.”  His voice drips exasperation.

Aside from the annual tree trunk bashing we’ve had a few adventures.  One Christmas we decided to cut our own tree.  We took a drive to a tree farm just outside of nearby Martinez.  I was handed a bow saw and we were pointed to a mini forest.  We stumbled around the rocky grounds and came to a tree that looked perfect.  We were in our tall tree period and we found one that looked to be 8 feet if it was an inch.  I went at it with the bow saw, probably wondering why I’d set myself up for an extra round of tree hacking as if my garage labors weren't enough.  We dragged it to one of the workers who offered to “trim it up a little” for us.  Between my cutting and the fellow’s trimming up the proud 8 foot tree we found in the field somehow shriveled to a 4 foot dwarf.  It was the smallest tree we've ever had; a sad little tree that provided us with a lifetime laugh. 

We doing more laps around the display of phony trees.  The trees in cartons are right there; ready to be loaded onto a cart.  The Martha Stewart Living brand looks pretty good.  If you stand thirty or forty feet away you can’t tell it’s an arboreal charlatan; well, yes you can.  I make note of the box.  Made in China.  The ironies are laughable.  Here I am mulling over a fake Christmas tree that’s made in Communist China where Jesus is persona non grata, and the thing is branded with the name of a person who is reputed to have all the empathy of Ebenezer Scrooge before his ghosts set him straight.  More sighing and pangs of guilt.  I’m feeling as if I’m shopping for a hooker. 

The kids have moved out and a circle of sorts has completed.  Unless we can catch them in a free moment during the busy holidays Cora and I decorate the tree ourselves now; just as we did when we were first together.  It takes longer and while we still do it with the same reverence that we always have, accompanied by Christmas music, it’s not quite the same.  It’s a new phase we still have to get used to.  

A few weeks ago we were in the downtown San Francisco Macy’s with the kids and grandchildren, looking at the store’s holiday shop.  There were more than a dozen trees there (all fake of course), each one decorated beautifully and each with its own theme; a Bohemian tree, a pink frou-frou tree, a cookies for Santa tree, a frosted garden tree and a woodland themed tree.  There was also a Jesus Christ nativity themed tree.  I can’t imagine where they came up with that idea. 

And then there’s our own tree.  It kind of looks like a jumble of stuff.  There’s no color coordination.  The ornaments seem to be all over the place; plastic, glass and fabric.  There isn't any discernible theme; baby carriages, glass balls, bells, instruments, boats, a nativity and a dog bone.  But take a closer look.  Our tree doesn't reflect forest animals, or Elvis or sports.  Over the years our tree has come to represent our lives.  It starts with some glass ornaments that my mom and dad bought in the fifties when I was a child.  We’re down to a precious few now.  In 1981 we bought an ornament commemorating our first year together.  There are some cheap brass bells, paper angels and plastic apples that we bought when we struggled paycheck to paycheck.  We have ornaments celebrating the births of our children and grandchildren.  Our dogs Rainey and Phantom will always have a place on our tree.  Place names like Playa del Carmen, Carmel, Solvang, Disneyland and Mystic Seaport show up, as do two recent additions from this past summer; Crater Lake and Calaveras Big Trees.   We have sports teams a university and even Starbucks where our daughter in law worked while going to nursing school.  There’s an ornament that our daughter made while in grade school.  Oh, we have plain ornaments with no real value other than they fill in gaps.  They’re handy for hanging on the lower branches in the event that a curious grandchild has that irresistible urge to touch or Rainey’s tail happens to connect and send one flying. 

Our first 1981

Our son's first

Our daughter's first

Like even the simplest Christmas balls, our special decorations are just glass and plastic shapes, turned out by the thousands.  The Disney ones probably by the millions.  And most of them in the aforementioned Communist China (they probably make crucifixes there too – go figure).  But when we bought them they gained meaning, as if they were born and gained a personality of sorts over the years.  They've certainly given our tree personality, if not any sense of coordination or organization.  

Dogs are part of the family

Mystic Seaport

I wonder if they’ll get passed down.  Will one of my grandchildren hold up the one with heart and two bears and explain to a child, “Your great grandparents got this one at Crater Lake.”  Will they put up that cheap looking pink, striped ball and say, “Your great – great grandparents bought this one back in the 1950s. That was almost 100 years ago. ”

From our daughter in law's barista days

I suggest to Cora that we go look at the fresh trees.  We get out to the lot and, hello, what’s this?  A 7 foot noble fir, nicely trimmed at the bottom (no bashing) for only 40 dollars.  We look at some of the other trees but we've really already decided on the one.  Driving home we allow that we could always get a fake tree after Christmas when they’re half price.  Or, we could get one, never.