Almost the day after Thanksgiving, Christmas tree lots began blooming around the neighborhood like dandelions after a spring rain. Where there were only vacant lots a few days ago, now stand row after row of Douglas firs and other assorted evergreens, ready to lend holiday cheer.
Every year the media carries stories about the line of festive people who have completely encircled the U.S. Forestry department offices in order to sign up for permits to cut their own Christmas trees on state land.
I can imagine what a family adventure that could be -- the struggle to find just the right tree and then the work of cutting it down and hauling it back to the car. An outing like that would only be complete after you had gathered around a crackling fireplace, warming as you slowly sipped at steaming hot chocolate.
Remember, though, that I grew up in the land of excess -- southern California -- home of the flocked white, blue or pink Christmas tree. The excursion to obtain the yearly Christmas tree usually took place in about 70-degree weather and if it weren't for the Christmas TV programs and advertising you'd have no idea what time of year it was.
"I noticed they're stringing lights for the Christmas tree lot next to the U-Rental yard down on the boulevard," I mentioned one night at dinner.
"After dinner, can we go down and get a tree?" my little brother, Ron, begged. "This year, can we get a white one? PLEASE?"
"They haven't got any trees yet," I informed him, "they're just stringing the lights."
"I can't believe it's Christmas time already," my father intoned between mouthfuls of Swiss steak. "Are you sure they're not just puttin' in another used car lot?"
"No -- it's a Christmas tree lot -- they've even got a sign."
My brother and I kept an eye on the lot, and the first week on December a big flatbed semi-truck piled high with Christmas trees pulled up and began to unload. We knew that Christmas time was finally beginning to get close now.
"I guess it's about time to go pick out a tree," my father said over his coffee that Saturday morning as we finished breakfast. "Might as well get the thing home and in a bucket of water to keep it from drying out too badly." My little brother was waiting in the car before my father even had a chance to put down his cup.
We browsed our way through the tree lot next to the U-Rental yard but my father, always in search of a better deal, loaded us back into the car and we moved on to the next lot down the street. After we had looked at what seemed like a hundred trees we found ourselves back at the lot that was our first stop.
"What do you think of this one?" asked my father as we stopped in front of the tree he'd pulled out of the row.
"I don't know, Bob," my mother replied. "This one side looks a little sparse on that one-- look at this one over here." My brother was left to guard the tree my father had found while we went over to look at my mother's tree.
"See how this one doesn't have any holes in it," my mother lobbied. "It'll look good from both inside the room and from outside the window." My father and I looked carefully at her tree and then walked back to where Ron stood with the other tree and examined it all over again.
We finally settled on a tree (my mother's) and after we stretched a sheet around it to protect the car's trunk from loose needles, we tied the trunk lid down and set off for home.
The first inch of the tree's trunk was sawed off to enable the tree to absorb water better, and then the tree was propped up sitting in a bucket of water behind the garage. There it sat until a week before Christmas when a space of honor was cleared for it in the living room and it was brought indoors.
Two large boxes marked "Xmas decorations" were carried in from the garage, and they were then opened to reveal more, smaller boxes that held tree ornaments that my mother remembered from her childhood. There were also strings of lights and packages of silvery "icicles" that my brother and I were always admonished to "put on one at a time and don't just throw handfuls at a tree."
After about an hour the tree was finally decorated and the whole house was filled with a scent that left little mystery about the season. That night, when the tree's lights were turned on, Christmas season officially began.[[In-content Ad]]
