It’s that time of year again. And, no, I don’t mean for shopping
or putting lights up or breaking out the good snow boots. Nooooooo,
I mean it’s time for an annual ritual so stressful and confusing
that chances are, afterwards, you will be found tucked under the
ottoman humming and braiding your hair. I’m talking about the
Picking-of-the-Tree.
It’s that time of year again. And, no, I don’t mean for shopping or putting lights up or breaking out the good snow boots. Nooooooo, I mean it’s time for an annual ritual so stressful and confusing that chances are, afterwards, you will be found tucked under the ottoman humming and braiding your hair. I’m talking about the Picking-of-the-Tree.
Now, those of you who’ve done this without kids are probably thinking, “What’s so bad about that? You just go to the lot, pick one, and viola!”
“Ha! Ha,” I say.
Each year, not being organized or outdoorsy types, we usually wait until the last possible minute then choose our tree from one of the lots in the middle of a discount store parking lot. (Which, everyone knows, is just like going to the forest, except for all of the shopping carts and halogen lights).
Oh sure, everything always starts out fine. We eagerly enter the parking lot filled with holiday spirit and high hopes. Heck, we may even make it past a tree or two in this very same mood. But, inevitably, someone will point and say something upsetting like, “Hey, what about this one?” And that’s when a major fight breaks out.
I’m not sure why this always surprises me. Because, let’s face it, there is something about The-Picking-of-the-Tree that causes even the most apathetic person to suddenly have a passionate opinion.
Take, for instance, my 12-year-old daughter. Mind you, she is the type of person who doesn’t even know that trees exist during any other time of the year. But, come December, she must find one that’s exactly 6 feet tall, at least 24 inches in diameter, with bluish-green needles, and preferably in the Pinus Strobus family.
Then there’s my 9-year-old son, who claims he doesn’t care what kind of tree we get, as long as it doesn’t look too tall, too short, too bushy, too twiggy, too green or too flocked, which, if you’re not in the know, is a chemical spray usually found in cans that creates artificial snow. He also doesn’t want the tree to look too much like, well, a tree.
Maybe I should be more like my friend Barb. At her house when she suggests, “Why don’t we go get the tree,” her husband sighs, and then goes into the garage and pulls down a cardboard box. Then the whole family spends a nice, non-stressful evening drinking hot apple cider and unfolding branches.
But where, I ask you, is the adventure in that?
Face it, despite the cold and all of the yelling there’s something special about picking out a Christmas tree together. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s from the anticipation. Or perhaps it’s from being outside in the fresh air. Or maybe it’s the effect of the fumes from all of the cans of flocking.
Whatever the reason, one thing’s for certain: Once the tree is decorated, no one cares what kind it is anymore anyway. In fact, by the time New Year’s Eve rolls around people go out of their way to avoid it altogether.
Nobody ever said that the-Picking-of-the-Tree makes any sense.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat. You can reach her at
fa********@oa***************.com
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