The Perfect Tree

Everyone has their own Christmas tree traditions, from fake to real; Noble to Douglas everyone has their own preferences and customs. In our house we like real, fresh, Noble Firs ten feet tall and smelling like joy and jubilation.

Our search for the perfect Christmas tree is a well established ritual. In the week prior to Thanksgiving the hunt is on to find the ideal ten foot tree. It has to be full, but not Douglas fir like or shrubbery like. There has to be plenty of spaces between branches, but not Charlie Brown tree size spacing. It must have strong and interspersed branches for the heavy ornaments and those of varying sizes and shapes. It's always an intricate dance. From as far back as I can remember my father has always been the tree shopper and an exceptionally picky one as well.

I remember, probably always will, my hardware store outings with my father. Yet farther and fewer between are the memories of tree hunting. Cramming into the cab my dad's truck, it always seemed to have loose nails, sawdust and random tools poking out from underneath the seat. We would head off into the world never questioning dad or his chosen tree trapping grounds. Every year was somewhere new, somewhere just a little different; Boy Scout tree lot one year and the trees in a Freddie’s parking lot the next, ten dollar forestry service tree pass one year and local cut-it-yourself tree farm the next. My mother insisted my father was the picky one and my father swore he was just trying to fulfill her tree criteria.

The problem however lay in the tree to price ratio. With vaulted ceilings in every house we've lived in since I was six. Trees had to be tall. Ten feet was ideal and since any lot is going to charge upward of a hundred dollars and at the least sixty or seventy, yes even in the evergreen state. My father would come home with a beautiful tree that cost an exurbanite amount of money and my mother would nit pick. "This side is denser than that one, there’s a whole in the branches here or the top is crooked". None of which were even really that true or even mattered. The issue was never the symmetry of the tree or the tensile strength of the branches, it was the little yellow tag attached to the top of the tree.  The tag that not only had a dollar amount on it but also in fine print said I'm going to die in a month and cost the same amount of money as new shoes for two of the kids. Its not that my mother is a tight wad or penny-pincher. There wasn't always money to do everything we may want to, but we children never wanted for anything.

We've all grown up. Moving out, getting careers, buying our own homes, getting married and starting our own families and traditions. Since it’s  just me I still have a tendency to bum along on my parents rituals. Being an "adult" I don't have the freedom to do as I want when I want and the last few years have been without their "great tree hunting expeditions." With no kids to drag along on the search my mother has finally been enlisted into the tree finding forces. Last year they ventured to a tree farm that was really a glorified backyard, but nonetheless found a beautifully acceptable tree, if a little Charlie Brown like, and this year since the price was right they ventured back. Returning home with the perfect tree.

Which is now sitting in the living room sucking up water and putting of the most wonderful scent of fir, our spectacular tree is the perfect symbol of the start of our Christmas season.