The Tree Thing

We don’t have a tree. That’s because last year we had kittens. On Thanksgiving Day weekend last year (the “year of the kittens”), I pulled out our fake tree (pre-lit no less), set it up, and trimmed it. The kittens figured it was a plaything created especially for them. At first they batted the balls hanging low. We’d pick them up off the floor and hang them back on the tree. Gary called me at work, “the kittens figured out how to climb the tree,” he informed me. “They’ve been climbing out on the branches and smacking the ornaments off the tree, then they jump down and bat them around the floor.”

When I got home, I headed to the tree. Branches were bent at unnatural angles, ornaments were scattered about the floor. I looked over at Gary. He gives me this defensive look. “I tried. It was useless.”

The routine of coming home and putting the tree back together lasted one more day, then I said to hell with it. About a week later a kitten snagged its foot in the light cord wrapped around one of the branches. Gary had to cut the cord to free the cat. – wish I’d been there to watch the show. So much for pre-lit. I tossed the tree after Christmas.

The first year we were married, Bruce and Gloria (Gary’s parents), drove up to the national forest land where you could cut your own Christmas tree. They cut one for us too. We were quite grateful for their thoughtfulness; I watched with great anticipation as Gary hauled the tree into the house. Gloria came after with some old ornaments she’d culled from her collection. The tree looked a little sparse, and it was small, but what matter -- It was our very first Christmas tree. We spent the good part of an hour trying to put it in the stand so that it stood straight. No matter what we did it was crooked. Gary finally said he was “fuckin’ finished.” Okay, I thought, so it’s not exactly straight, it’ll look alright once we get the ornaments on and then we’ll shove it in the corner in such a way as to disguise the fact that it’s in the damn stand crooked. The ornaments didn’t do much to fill in the gaps. When we tried to find the straight angle we discovered that the tree was so twisted that it didn’t’ matter what “angle” it was sitting at it was going to look crooked (because it was). We named it our Charlie Brown tree (went with the house which is a story in and of itself). The next year we went up to the mountain and cut our own tree.

I had this Currier and Ives image of going to the forest to get our tree. Wrong. In order to go to the woods you have to drive up steep, twisty-turny, gravel logging roads. I was sure we’d end up going over the bank, never to be found again. Gary was in his element --I think he went farther than we really needed to go. He just had to show me the spectacular view of some mountain – maybe he figured as soon as I saw the view I’d forget just how close we were to the edge of the road. Heck, for all I know we could’ve been poaching the tree. I had not a clue where in heaven’s name we were. Once you’ve found a tree the right size and shape that isn’t crooked (no easy task) you’ve got to cut it down and haul it back to the car. Hopefully, the car isn’t too far away. The ride down the mountain is only better in that you know you are heading for safe ground. The price of gas was my rationale why that wasn’t a good idea for future years.

Our landlord gave us a tree every year when we lived on Everson-Goshen Rd. He had a little Christmas tree lot that he maintained himself. The branches wrapped around and around the tree. You could hang two ornaments on one branch and they’d be on opposite sides of the tree. We lived there ten years, every single Christmas tree we had was like that, almost as if it had been in a perpetual whirlwind.

When we moved to Acme, I bought a fake tree, on the premise that it’d save us money. Brenda hated it; she wanted a real tree. Tough. It might’ve been cheaper, but having a fake tree isn’t any less hassle than a real tree. You’ve got to put it together, and shape the branches so they look kind of real. Then after the holiday you’ve got to disassemble it and straighten out the branches so they’ll fit into the box.

From a purely ecological standpoint, I’d say that a live tree is the only responsible choice. That’s assuming that after Christmas you manage to plant the thing -- and it lives. I wonder how many live trees ever see another Christmas?

For years I dreamed of having a “designer” tree after the kids were grown – something that looks like a professional put it together. My brother Pat and his partner Greg have such a tree, but then their entire house looks like it came out of House Beautiful. Every year they decorate for Christmas, and then host an open house with a wonderful spread of food and drink. I’ve given up on the idea of a perfect tree. I lost the inclination once I had the opportunity to make it a reality.

A few years ago my mother said she didn’t feel like having a tree. No tree? -- We all thought she was depressed. Someone (not me) bought her a tree and decorated her place. I don’t know if that same person cleaned up the decorations after Christmas or if that chore was left to someone else. I suspect the latter.

So what to do about a tree? Somehow I just can’t get motivated, especially considering the work involved. First you have to find a spot to put it. – Where the hell are those furniture movers when you need them? Then you have to set up the tree. If it’s real you have to go get it then haul it in the house, then put it in the tree stand (a project in and of itself). Digging out all those ornaments from the attic, garage, or wherever is next. At my house the ornaments are behind and/or under a bunch of other junk. I guess that’s as good a reason as any to simplify. Trimming the tree is supposed to be the fun part. My family lets me have all the fun. Just think of the fun after Christmas taking down the ornaments, packing them up (I always seem to have ornaments still floating around in July), taking down the tree, cleaning up and rearranging the furniture. I’ve got to ask myself, why the hell go through the hassle?

I keep thinking of all those millions of trees, and all that plastic tree like junk and wonder at the impact if we all just gave up one of the most inane of traditions. – And then wonder how much of my thought process is really just tinged with my own growing aversion to participating in that very tradition.

This year I think I’ll go “green” and forego the tree. That ought to fit in nicely with my plan to boycott corporate retail outlets (which worked swimmingly last year). So what if my ulterior motive is that I’m lazy and cheap?