
It was the best of trees.
It was the worst of trees.
It was a tree of wisdom.
It was a tree of foolishness.
It was a tree of light.
It was a tree of darkness.
It was a tree of hope.
It was a tree of despair.
[Apologies to Charles Dickens for bastardizing “A Tale of Two Cities.”]
I was raised in a family where artificial Christmas trees were not a consideration. Each year, a “live tree” was brought into our house. [The irony of that term is not lost.] The scent of the tree quickly filled our tiny house. But it was much more than that. The tree elevated not just our sense of smell, but it brought joy, love and light to our other senses as well. Glorious Christmas was near. And at Christmas, anything was possible!
My 4 siblings and I would impatiently wait while my dad put the tree in the stand and then hung lights on it. Now, these lights were not the small, cheap, “Made in China” lights intended to last one year and then be thrown away. Oh no. They were large, colorful bulbs. Bulbs that would get hot ensuring that they would not stay on overnight. Bulbs to singe little fingers. You know, fire hazard bulbs.
That first glorious night, we would hang ornaments, both store bought and homemade on the tree. Being the 1960s, tinsel icicles would be the last items placed on the tree as mom constantly yelled out, “One at a time! Just hang one at a time!”
Nighttime was the best. The rest of the lights in the room turned off, the glow of the star on top of the tree, the bulbs smoldering on its branches, maybe Mitch Miller’s “Sing Along with Mitch Christmas Songs” album being played on the Magnavox. And all was right with the world.
As the years passed and the dreams and fantasies of childhood were left behind, our adult years came upon us. But still, the Christmas tree was eternal. It had to be real. It remained my symbol representing the endless possibilities of greater futures.
Little strangers a/k/a children came into our life. With ever growing numbers of friends and their Little Strangers, we would pile into first our cars, then onto full sized buses, and travel to Christmas tree farms to saw down our very own trees. The look of absolute wonder on our children’s faces were a time portal allowing us small glimpses into our past childhood. And for brief moments in time, we remembered.

Then, the ravages of time took its toll … work, divorce, misplaced priorities … all life lessons teaching us that life is not easy. And it is not meant to be.
And yet, the Christmas tree remained. Decorating the tree became “a thing” for Morgan and me. Each year we strung popcorn and cranberry strands. Even as her eating disorder began to ravage her bodily organs and take her away, the tree remained our last vestige of a childhood that was gone … for both of us.

And then, she was gone.
That first year, less than 2 months after Morgan was taken was gut wrenching. As for a Christmas tree? Forget it! Why go through that pain? But sometimes decisions are removed from your control. Surrounded by pushy siblings, nieces and nephews, a tree found its way into my place … and remained in my life. I still recall the hours which elapsed, tears on my face, looking at the tree. And questioning life.
For the first time, I felt that a Christmas tree was seemingly mocking me. What did I have to be thankful for, or hopeful about? And yet, the tree remained, calling me, trying to get me to remember … to not give up all hope.

A few years went by. And each year, a tree would go up. Now, make no mistake, a “live tree” is not easy. You must work it into the stand, tighten the screws, level it, remember to pour water into it, trim it. It drops needles. It is dirty and messy… and worth every second and every adversity. It helps you … feel. It helps you remember that there are far greater things than your own existence.
A few years ago, on the day I was going to pick up a young lady who was being checked into ERC the next day, just 2 hours before her flight arrived, the Christmas tree fell. Ornaments I deemed precious, shattered. I ranted about how it was NOT a Christmas tree, but it surely must be “Satan’s Shrub.” And then, a valuable life lesson was brought manifest. The only ornaments which broke were those purchased at stores. The precious ones hand made by my children… all survived. Precious memories. A truer message of Christmas, of love, of our children was brought to me.

This year’s version of the Christmas tree was … alarming. Not because of the work that went into it, but because of the incredible ease every step of the way.
We went to the local tree lot (Lowe’s), walked in and the very first tree we saw, was “it.” No bad side which would need to face the wall. Perfect height. It was full. It was perfect. We got it on top of the car with no issues. Brought it home. The stand fit it perfectly the first time. This tree stood tall and straight. After cutting off the netting, the branches settled into perfect harmony. I put on the lights with no issues at all. Ornaments adorned the tree. And then, I found a perfect “tree topper.” A beautiful, Victorian looking angel. Naturally, it fit precisely.

All was right with the world. Or so I thought.
The next morning when I went to check how much water the tree had taken in, I was surprised to see the stand still full of water. Although a bit concerned, I looked upon this as a temporary, small issue. After all, this was the perfect Christmas tree. But, as days went by and the only water leaving the stand was through evaporation, I felt the “perfect Christmas tree” drying out. And quickly at that. It remained presentable for a family and friend’s party. But its days were quickly over. The “perfect Christmas tree,” the easiest one I had ever had, was anything but perfect.
With still almost two weeks before Christmas, this now fire hazard had to go. And so, it did.

But Christmas is before us. And to not have a tree on that sacred day was unthinkable. So … hi ho, hi ho, it’s back to the lot I go.
Not surprisingly, the only trees left were those that would have made Charlie Brown proud. I was standing on the island of misfit trees. Some beginning to brown on the edges. It was raining of course. I was the only customer there. I grabbed the least sad tree that I could find. A tree I normally would not have even considered for one second. As a last resort it had to be relatively acceptable even though scrawny. And so, this unwanted, red headed stepchild of a Christmas tree found its way home.
It is the smallest tree I have had in years. I put the lights on. Because of its size, far fewer than normal. Then the ornaments. Again, far fewer. The tree’s diminutive size would simply not allow it. And yet, somewhere along the way, just as it happened in a Charlie Brown Christmas, the tree began to transform.
Memories of Christmas tree farms, of the sweet innocence of children, the shouts of joy, the pure laughter from these soulful, little strangers, the sharing of the almost sacred ritual of decorating the tree with my daughter rose to the surface. Its scent was pure … and sublime.
And once again, another valuable lesson manifested. The Christmas tree which I had held so dear for all of these decades, was indeed merely a symbol, important yes, but just a symbol. Most importantly, it was the love surrounding the tree. The shared dear, precious time spent with loved ones. Spending time together.
This scrawny, Charlie Brown tree, overlooked by many, reminded me of the most precious times in which love, pure love, a love a parent has for his child embraces us. It is there to be held. To be cherished.
Fate, karma, or perhaps a little hand from beyond bestowed that gift upon me. Reminders of past feelings, of love, of a bond that even death cannot break. Those thoughts, those feelings came to me as I put the last few ornaments on.
I remembered. I felt that love. Tears on my face. And a Little One no longer here reminding me, of filling my heart.
What a Christmas gift.
As for the tree …














