O Christmas Tree!
The Lovely Mrs. G. and I finally got around to buying a Christmas tree this weekend. Or, I really should say that Mrs. G. did the buying. Personally, I think real trees are kind of a waste of money. Why cut down a perfectly good piece of nature, only to have it sit in your living room for two weeks, slowly shedding needles, then have it end up next to the Christmas boxes and shreds of paper and tinsel on the curb come December 26?
Why, a plastic tree is perfectly fine for me. No mess, no watering, no pine needles to step on in the middle of the night, no disposal worries. And if you decorate it with 10 zillion lights, you can hardly notice the cheapie coat-hanger style branches.
But alas – I married a (wonderful, loving, and practically perfect in every way) Montana girl, who loves her fresh cut Christmas trees, so that’s what we have. And that’s okay – she likes them, and if it makes her happy, then it makes me happy.
Growing up in the land of many, many, pine tress (Washington – The EVERGREEN State), we were one of the first families on the block to have a plastic Christmas tree. My Mother was deathly afraid of fire (she still is), and she was convinced that any moment now our Christmas tree would spontaneously combust and turn us all into little Gressel cinders.
But there were a couple of times back in my “early days” that I can recall having a real Christmas tree. The one that sticks out most in my memory was the one we cut down in our own backyard.
Seattle used to have a hardware chain called “Ernst”, which used to give out free fir trees at their annual Do-It-Yourself Fair. One of my siblings had been given one, which my Dad planted in the backyard a few years earlier, which had now matured and grown into a beautiful 6-foot tall specimen. (Even more amazing, since few things outside of dandelions and moss managed to grow in that lousy Seattle weather.)
Since there was a nice Christmas tree right there – free and at our disposal – we played Paul Bunyan and took the axe to it (not a pretty sight – the tree did not go peacefully, if I remember right), and brought it inside. There, it was attacked with lights, ornaments, garland, and a whole lot of tinsel, courtesy of my younger sister and me.
Our homegrown Christmas tree was perfect. It was heart-warming. It was our newest family member.
It was a dry, brown, thoroughly dead, totally pathetic compilation of stump and branches three days later.
Yes, our perfect backyard tree didn’t like coming indoors, and promptly croaked.
By December 15 the needles were brown.
By December 20 there weren’t any needles.
By Christmas? The poor thing looked more like a tumbleweed than a Christmas tree.
Believe me - Charlie Brown’s tree looked a thousand times better than this wretched thing.
Of course, my poor pyro-phobiac Mother had an absolute conniption about having this dead firetrap in her house, and we weren’t allowed to plug in the lights for more than a couple of minutes, less it heat up too high and become a generous supply of indoor kindling.
And I don’t think I need to tell you that it was out of the house and gone from our memory by December 26.
And that, my tree hugging friends, ended the Gressel family’s adventures with fresh Christmas trees. From then on we lived La Vida Plastica, which also meant no more tinsel for us. Double boo.
But on the “bright side” (no pun intended), we did end up with this snazzy spinning light thing – four different colors that would project on your tree as a color wheel spun and a giant light bulb shone through. What can I say – it was the 70’s. It wasn’t real, but it was really psychedelic.
So here it is 2005 - and we’ve got our real tree – but no spinning colored lights, no tinsel, and with any luck, no Class C flammable Douglas firs.
But just to be on the safe side, I’ll keep the fire extinguisher nearby.
My Mom would be proud.
Why, a plastic tree is perfectly fine for me. No mess, no watering, no pine needles to step on in the middle of the night, no disposal worries. And if you decorate it with 10 zillion lights, you can hardly notice the cheapie coat-hanger style branches.
But alas – I married a (wonderful, loving, and practically perfect in every way) Montana girl, who loves her fresh cut Christmas trees, so that’s what we have. And that’s okay – she likes them, and if it makes her happy, then it makes me happy.
Growing up in the land of many, many, pine tress (Washington – The EVERGREEN State), we were one of the first families on the block to have a plastic Christmas tree. My Mother was deathly afraid of fire (she still is), and she was convinced that any moment now our Christmas tree would spontaneously combust and turn us all into little Gressel cinders.
But there were a couple of times back in my “early days” that I can recall having a real Christmas tree. The one that sticks out most in my memory was the one we cut down in our own backyard.
Seattle used to have a hardware chain called “Ernst”, which used to give out free fir trees at their annual Do-It-Yourself Fair. One of my siblings had been given one, which my Dad planted in the backyard a few years earlier, which had now matured and grown into a beautiful 6-foot tall specimen. (Even more amazing, since few things outside of dandelions and moss managed to grow in that lousy Seattle weather.)
Since there was a nice Christmas tree right there – free and at our disposal – we played Paul Bunyan and took the axe to it (not a pretty sight – the tree did not go peacefully, if I remember right), and brought it inside. There, it was attacked with lights, ornaments, garland, and a whole lot of tinsel, courtesy of my younger sister and me.
Our homegrown Christmas tree was perfect. It was heart-warming. It was our newest family member.
It was a dry, brown, thoroughly dead, totally pathetic compilation of stump and branches three days later.
Yes, our perfect backyard tree didn’t like coming indoors, and promptly croaked.
By December 15 the needles were brown.
By December 20 there weren’t any needles.
By Christmas? The poor thing looked more like a tumbleweed than a Christmas tree.
Believe me - Charlie Brown’s tree looked a thousand times better than this wretched thing.
Of course, my poor pyro-phobiac Mother had an absolute conniption about having this dead firetrap in her house, and we weren’t allowed to plug in the lights for more than a couple of minutes, less it heat up too high and become a generous supply of indoor kindling.
And I don’t think I need to tell you that it was out of the house and gone from our memory by December 26.
And that, my tree hugging friends, ended the Gressel family’s adventures with fresh Christmas trees. From then on we lived La Vida Plastica, which also meant no more tinsel for us. Double boo.
But on the “bright side” (no pun intended), we did end up with this snazzy spinning light thing – four different colors that would project on your tree as a color wheel spun and a giant light bulb shone through. What can I say – it was the 70’s. It wasn’t real, but it was really psychedelic.
So here it is 2005 - and we’ve got our real tree – but no spinning colored lights, no tinsel, and with any luck, no Class C flammable Douglas firs.
But just to be on the safe side, I’ll keep the fire extinguisher nearby.
My Mom would be proud.
posted by Tommy G at
4:39 PM
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