It was usually this time of the year, two weeks or so before Christmas, when we’d make the annual trek. My son, Lance, and I would put on the appropriate clothing for a December walk in the woods. For some reason, it always felt much colder than what we’ve experienced this past week in the Shoals. Anyway, we’d get an ax and head to a friend’s property in Colbert County . Our mission was to find a family Christmas tree. Through the years, the options seemed to dwindle.
Most of the full, perfectly shaped pines and cedars seemed to be disappearing. I’m not sure which came first, the diminished supply of trees or that year when our eyes thought a little larger than our modest-sized living room could handle. But that’s when Lance and I abandoned those trips in favor of a stop at a local Christmas tree stand. At least the tradition was continuing. And, in all fairness, the selection was much better.
The shape of the trees was better than we had found in the woods and, perhaps most importantly, there was less chance of Lance or me coming home with fewer than 10 toes. We became quite the experts on fir trees. We learned how to tell a fresh tree from one that was cut months ago. We developed instincts that told us which trees would lose their needles before Christmas. I’ve always been a fan of “real” Christmas trees. My son has maintained a similar philosophy in his adult years.
Oddly enough, neither of us have had “real” trees in recent years. Our households have given into the convenience rage and gone artificial. For me, anyway, it takes something away from that Christmas spirit. Maybe it’s the smell or maybe it’s because of the time Lance and I spent looking for that perfect tree. Maybe it’s the promise I made to myself when I was a kid. I’ll never forget those trips to my grandparents’ house during the holiday season.