Memories are for the soul. They free it to soar through time.C e hollis
When I was a child in Michigan my dad owned a tree farm. On the north end he planted stands of hardwoods and on the south end Christmas trees. We helped with the planting sitting on a planter behind a tractor stabbing the saplings in the furrows.
As the trees grew over the next seven years we spent many hot summer days pruning the trees to make then straight and properly pointy. We each had favorites when it came time to harvest. Dad cut a row of them to sell from the end of our driveway. The finest would grace our living room.
Every year with the children we’d go pick out a tree at a tree farm. I wouldn’t want a fake tree but in Oklahoma, unlike Michigan, tree farms are few and far between. We would go to the farm or to a tree lot and walk through looking at and comparing trees till we finally agreed on one, buy it and tie it go the top of van. Then we’d drive home sucking on candy canes and listening to Aaron Neville’s Christmas tape.
Ron and I still go and get a tree every year. It is a disappointment not to have the kids to run through the trees and bicker and bargain over the best pick. After my decision a hired hand would cut and shake the tree and tie it with netting. But no children to ride home singing carols with the radio.
When we make it home we and stand the tree and put in some music to decorate by break out h cookies and make some hot chocolate. Unboxing the lights and the ornaments brings on another wave of nostalgia.
The Christmas tree is special to me and I don’t think I ever want an artificial or to forgo the whole process. It connects with my mom and dad and with my seven children. It’s a strong connection and though it makes me teary eyed, I love it.