Nothing strikes more wonder in a child's heart during the holiday season than the beauty of a decorated Christmas tree. In my home the tree was the center around which all activities happened. Presents were piled under it, torturing us with the mystery that was inside.
Each year, right after Thanksgiving, Dad would load us all into the old wood paneled station wagon. We would head to the nearest Christmas tree lot and there peruse all the freshly cut trees. At the lot, as soon as Dad stopped the car, we exited and ran in four different directions. Each one of us was determined to choose the best tree, the one that would make it home strapped snugly to the roof of our old car. With the smell of fresh pine sap assaulting our nostrils, we plunged into the temporary fir forest.
We searched hard for the perfect Christmas trees. Occasionally we'd be disappointed with our purchased choice. The trunk might have been crooked and wouldn't fit in the stand, or we would over judge the height and have to cut off the top because our angel was smashed against the ceiling. But we were always determined to outdo the previous year.
My criteria was clear and simple. No skinny Christmas trees. No dead trees, and no tree less than six foot tall. Since we always went to the tree lot early in the holiday season, we had our pick of the most beautiful pines. I always searched the snow covered lanes with the determination of a treasure hunter scouting out pirate booty. Trees with pine cones were a bonus. It was as if God had already started decorating it even before we got the tree home. Another plus was a bird's nest nestled in the boughs. But the biggest boon was finding a tree that had little red berries sprouting from the end of the branches.
Dad gave us an hour to search while he stood by the bonfire drinking hot chocolate and chewing the fat with the tree lot's owner. Dressed warm enough to survive an Alaskan blizzard, we worked the maze-like aisles until each of us found the tree we thought would be the best. Carefully we’d mark the spot, and then meet up with Dad, pulling him by the hand and drag him to each tree. He would exhaustively contemplate every one. We nervously stood, switching from foot to foot, as he studied our chosen trees.
When Dad would finally pick his favorite, one of us would be ecstatic while the other three were disappointed. But the disappointment would quickly fade while we all joined into the spirit of Christmas, helping to haul the tree to the car and strapping it on. All the way home we’d sing carols and sniff at the pine sap still left on our hands.
Christmas trees still hold that wonder for me. I can’t catch a whiff of pine scent without being drug back to those Christmas tree lots, searching for the perfect tree, and remembering the joy of Christmas.
