Last week the New York Times
reported that “well over 50 million artificial Christmas trees
will grace living rooms and dens this season…compared to about 30
million real trees.”
If you are like me, “grace” is not a verb that comes
readily to mind when you think of artificial trees.
I can’t remember the last time I had a real tree, though
it was doubtless during the Carter Administration. On principle, I
desire genuineness and authenticity, not phoniness, which is
why — come to think of it
— I was no fan of the Carter Administration.
It’s also why I never warmed to the idea of a fake tree.
Even as kids we longed for authenticity, and our maturing
sensibilities were offended by even the idea of an artificial tree.
It was, however, our insistence on an authentic Christmas
experience that would eventually backfire on us.
It was early December, in the mid-Seventies. After
considerable lobbying on my behalf, my father conceded to drive us
kids to one of those Christmas tree farms where
— for a rather large fee —
the farmer allows you to saw down your own tree, lug it a
quarter of a mile through the slop, and tie it onto the roof of
your car, all while said farmer stands idly by roasting himself by
a fire, licking his thumb and counting his profits.
Needless to say, it was great fun for us kids. My father
took it all with his usual forbearance, at least till we got home
and the tree was found to be infested with hundreds of bugs
— hungry, blood sucking pests that had been
awakened (and were none too happy about it) by the dry, warminess
of our living room fireplace. The tree was immediately and
unceremoniously dumped in the alley, and, next day, replaced with
an artificial one.
And what a poor excuse for a tree it was. Today’s
nine-foot, eighty-pound, pre-lit downswept faux Hunter firs might
be mistaken for the real McCoy, but, in the 1970s, artificial trees
resembled nothing so much as broomsticks pockmarked with drill
holes into which one joylessly jammed anemic wire
branches.
This time, our protests fell on deaf ears. “You can get a
real tree when you move out,” said mother, who had earlier placed
the same restrictions, first on a dog, and, later, on a
motorcycle.
SOMEHOW, WE NEVER quite got around to it. Not the dog, not
the motorcycle, not even the tree. The years passed, we went away
to college, moved into our own slacker/bachelor pads. When the
holidays came around, we’d think, “What do I need a tree for? I’ll
just spend Christmas with the folks. They’ll have a tree. Not a
real one, god knows. One of them pre-lit, downswept Hunter firs,
but a tree nonetheless.”
And so it goes. Then one day you look up and you are
middle-aged and engaged, and your fiancée is saying, “Wouldn’t it
be fun to get a real Christmas tree?” You can tell by her look that
it’s not really a question so much as test of your suitability,
compatibility, and mind-reading ability.
Which brings us up to Friday night, when the future Mrs.
Orlet and I went tree shopping.
Every holiday season, Boy Scout Troop #6 sponsors a
Christmas tree stand in the parking lot of St. Pius Church. Who
knew? It’s a fine, well-fenced-in tree lot, evidently to keep at
bay all those Grinchy Christmas tree thieves. (I didn’t even know
we had boy scout troops in the inner-city, but I guess learning
survival skills makes even more sense here.)
It was a week before Christmas and there were maybe
fifteen trees left. We found one that stood about five feet tall,
and wasn’t too Charlie Brown looking, and gave the troop leader
$40, which he claimed would go toward a camping trip
— presumably outside the city limits. Then the
scouts —many of them with sub-Sahara
African accents — wrestled over who got to throw the pine into the
back of the pickup. Then we drove home happily humming
carols.
When we got home we cracked open a bottle of wine and
decorated our first real Christmas tree together. It’s a good
looking tree, if I do say so myself. Well worth the effort and
expense. So what if the majority of people prefer fake trees? I
find that, like J.W. Goethe, I rather like being on the margins.
Germany’s greatest writer once claimed that everything great and
intelligent is in the minority. I’m guessing he would have
preferred a real tree, too.
