O Christmas Tree

Growing up in the Great White North we had a real Christmas tree . . . for awhile anyway. I wish I had the pictures to support the story, but alas I do not.

Every December we would venture out to my Grandpa's house, way out in the middle of nowhere where he owned some obscene amount of acreage. We'd drive out and find ourselves a "great" tree. Indeed, some of those trees probably were great. Ironically though, perfection is not the theme of this story and perfection is NOT what I remember or what has been passed on through the great tale of Christmas trees in our family.

When I was about 4 or 5 my dad took me with him out to the woods to find the tree. I guess my mom and brother must have stayed back, been sick, etc. My dad wasn't usually the doting father and for the most part I was not a daddy's girl, but the year I was five, my dad and I were close because he was laid off from his job and spent the afternoons with me after I got home from kindergarten. So, that year when we went into the woods together he let ME choose the family Christmas tree. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? Well, if you are a parent you know that any Christmas tree is beautiful to a small child and trees with snow on them are even more beautiful. I chose THE tree, a tree that was "perfect" in my little childhood eyes. My mom . . . she did not see the perfection that I saw in that little tree, so in our small family circle it became known as "The Charlie Brown Tree."

The following year it was my brother's turn to choose the ole' tanenbaum. He was 6.5 years older than me and certainly a 12 year old could choose a better tree than a 5 year old right? One might think that. Mark went out, maybe even by himself, across the road from our house, and back he came with a sled full of pine boughs sticking out. It's the kind of tree that I'm shocked my dad could even get through the door. It was ROTUND to say the least. In fact, I think the tree my brother chose might be better described as a bush. The star on the top was so buried in the branches you could barely see it. And so it was affectionatley called the "bush tree."

THAT was the last year of my childhood that we had a real Christmas tree. From the next year on we had an artificial tree. That was fine, and it was more "perfect" in the traditional Christmas tree sense. So, while we all try so hard to achieve perfection during the holidays, perfection doesn't always make for the best, family stories.