by Cookie Curci
According to the World Almanac, 35 million Christmas trees are sold and
decorated in North America every holiday season. Each household decorates these
trees in its own distinctive way. In most families, unchanging ritual governs the
selection of the tree.
Because my husband and I have different criteria for perfection and family
rituals, the yearly selection of our Christmas tree is never an easy task. Each
year, as we descend upon our local Christmas tree lots, we inevitably engage
in the same seasonal warfare: He wants the biggest green tree in the lot; I
prefer the small white one. I adore the bushy Balsam; his heart is set on a
flimsy Douglas fir.
And so it goes, year after year. If somewhere on the lot there's a crooked
pine tree with missing branches, hopelessly tilting to one side, my husband will
be drawn to it like a fly to a backyard barbecue. As if possessing
telekinetic powers, he'll pass over dozens of well-shaped pines in order to zone in on
the one emaciated tree. With the instincts of a homing pigeon, he'll circle the
tree lot until he finds it.
Every year, I have the same decision: to let my husband select the holiday
tree and cringe when visitors come to call, or resort to clever trickery and
connive a way to bring home a tree I can be proud of.
Each Christmas, we set out in joyful repetition to select our holiday tree.
Both of us agree, beforehand, on the exact size, shape and image of the tree we
want to bring home. But the minute our shoes hit the sawdust and the scent of
fresh pine fills our nostrils, all bets are off. The silent war begins. My
husband will coyly suggest that I choose the tree. "Any tree on the lot," he'll
say, in a tone of compliance. With a false sense of security, I accept his
generous, if not suspect, offer and quickly select a tree that satisfies my
aesthetic needs.
But the moment I snap off the price tag, hubby has an immediate change of
heart. Following true to form, he pleads, "Wait a minute, honey, I want to look
around a little bit more." I'm not the least bit surprised when he passes over
my beautiful tree in favor of a lifeless pine he's found hidden somewhere in
the darkest corner of the lot.
All is fair in love and the tree-shopping war, and now the gloves are off.
I'll have to resort to the old bait and switch trick. Magnanimously, I suggest
to my husband that I will gladly pay for the tree myself while he brings the
car around. Never one to resist a monetary gain, he readily agrees. Meanwhile, I
switch his tag with the tag from my tree. The attendant loads the tree
matching my original tag neatly into the trunk of our car and my husband is never
the wiser ... or is he? I sometimes wonder if this is his shrewd way of getting
me to pay for the Christmas tree every season. Maybe I'm not so clever after
all.
On the occasions when I've let my husband bring home a tree of his choice,
the results were disastrous. For instance, there was that year he came home with
a 10-foot tree for our 8-foot high ceiling. "I'll just take a little bit off
the bottom," he assured me. The words were barely out of his mouth when the
hum of his Skil-saw began vibrating throughout the living room. By the time he
finished sculpting, the once-mighty tree had been abbreviated to the size of a
small, dilapidated bush, and our living room was buried beneath three layers
of sawdust.
Then there was the time be brought home that pencil-thin Douglas fir. Each
branch was separated by a foot of space. Something about it, he said, reminded
him of his childhood. Like Charlie Brown, he insisted that all that little tree
needed was a good home and a little tinsel to set it right. Fifteen boxes of
tinsel, six boxes of ornaments and five strings of lights later, its flimsy
little branches folded up like a cheap umbrella in a windstorm. Our cats,
Squeegee and Tweety, ingested some stray tinsel and had to be rushed to the vet. For
what we paid in decorations and vet bills, we could have supplied our entire
neighborhood with Christmas trees.
Each year, my husband and I debate over Douglas fir, silver tip and white or
green Scottish pine. We disagree on color themes and decorating schemes and
argue how the tree-topper should be placed. We fret over broken ornaments,
hassle with replacement lights and grumble over burned-out fuses.
But on that holiest of nights, when the lights are turned low and the
household gathers around our tree, it shimmers and glitters in the darkness like a
brilliant supernova setting our home aglow with all that's good about the
holidays. And for a little while, all is calm, all is bright--until next year, when
the whole, darn, wonderful fiasco begins all over again.
For over 14 years, Cookie Curci wrote a popular nostalgia column for The Willow Glen
Resident. (The Silicon Valley Metro Newspapers...San Jose califonia)
www.metroactive.com. She's currently writing a column called "Looking Back" that
appears monthly in FRA NOI - a Chicago based newspaper. In additon she writes for
"Mature Living" in Toledo, Ohio, "Senior News" in West Virginia and THE WILLOW GLEN TIMES in San Jose. More about Cookie is at On Writing a Nostalgia Column.... If you would like to comment on an article, Cookie can be reached at Cookiecurci@aol.com.
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