Ode to the Tannenbaum (essay)

For the sake of convenience, economy, and frugality, my husband and I decided early on in our relationship to invest in a phony, reusable Christmas tree, which we felt would look majestic enough from a distance, all blanketed with crystal ornaments, strung with rainbow colored lights flashing throughout, and surrounded by brightly wrapped packages heaped beneath.

But we gave up a lot by choosing not to bring a living Christmas tree into our house.  First, there’s the charming ritual of acquiring a living tree—better if you go trouncing into the woods to chop the perfect one down, but still a heart-warming experience to go hunting through the abundant selections at a street-side tree lot of a nippy, frosty evening.

Then comes the important project of situating the tree into its stand, with a critical eye out for the perfect front and correct angle.  The aroma of a freshly cut tree never fails to spark memories of carefree childhood anticipation of a lovely holiday filled with golden comfort and gay family gatherings.

After tree placement, it’s time to pull out all the ornaments, each with its own memory or story.  Decorating living Christmas tree branches somehow feels like lovingly dressing a kindred spirit, a welcomed friend who manages to brighten a corner of the house for many weeks.  After the final glass bauble is in place, there’s the daily ritual of keeping the tree hydrated, but eventually the needles begin dropping, a sad indication that Christmastime will soon be over and the long, dark winter must settle in.  

Finally, time comes to defrock the tree.  Unceremoniously, it’s bagged in black plastic and tossed out into the alley behind the house where it molders like an abandoned friend until the trash men haul it away to the landfill.

Looking at this with hindsight, having an artificial tree becomes less joyous but ultimately less painful, although today, in an age of sustainable recycling, a spent Christmas tree can be taken to the wood chipper in the park, chopped into a manageable heap, bagged, brought home, and lovingly scattered about in the spring—heartfelt mulch for the garden.