trees

Several of my postings may have erroneously created the impression of me as a 'tree hugger'. This is not completely accurate. (I have on recent occasion spent thousands of dollars to empty our lot of them). Those trees that rain down some new brand of crap every season. Those which would reek havoc on one's carefully planned brick patio or undermine one's effort to sell off real property- all the time hogging up the sun for themselves. I've even heard stories of skiers being killed by them! Who would defend trees? 'Produces oxygen' is just so smug. I produce a great many things- could I rest my laurels on ' produces laundry'? It's time for trees to come down off their high horse and own up to what they're really good for; They go a long way in fleshing out a national park. They might aspire to become anything from parking tickets to Nora Roberts' latest tome. They create charming vistas, ripe for capture in Adamsian photos. They are home and pantry to any number of species (with an equally limited appeal {don't get me started on squirrels}). Their contribution to cans of mixed nuts should not be overlooked, though usually over fifty percent of that praise belongs to the ground-hugging peanut. And I certainly won't argue that in the hands of a craftsman, they can be transformed into objects of compelling beauty. These are all rather passive attributes. Producing a nut might require a bit of effort, but there ends their responsibility as a parent. In almost every case, from clearing the path for new construction, to putting out wild fires, to refolding road maps, trees rarely do other than tax our patience. Yet still, the sentiment I have confessed is that I'd rather not see them (or us in the process) humiliated. Now, this has only a little bit to do with the pre-lit, pink, fake ones being on sale this week at Boscov's, but the irony of tasteful Christmas trees has gnawed at me for some time. I believe that from the minute we drag a just-dead tree into our home and tangle a few hundred feet of string lights into it, we have made the commitment to considerably increasing our 'tacky per-cubic-foot' ratio. You may see "...ornaments hand-crafted for us in a darling little glass studio in Denmark" but I only see " Oh my God!, you have a f*&in tree in your house!" I am purely an aesthetic snob. I hate houses with shutters that couldn't be closed, mansions you can see from the street, streets named after real estate developers' daughters, 'semi-detached' paint schemes, and now; sharing one's home with a dying tree (that's what house plants are for). We've always had 'live' trees, I can't be exact in describing what makes this year different except that I am primed to revisit our traditions- the present political and economical climate has undermined the security of returning to that comfortable illusion of an old-fashioned anything. Few who have ever actually tried to string popcorn and cranberries could disagree; this activity raises blood pressure instead of lowering it (I'm almost sure that Martha Stewart 'pre-drills'), as does baking with children and shopping in the 'under $10.' price range. Retailers would have us running for anything that promises to remove just an ounce of the pressure of recreating that occasion pictured in Coke ads of the past. It's not that I lack sentiment entirely. The use of Christmas cards is absolutely perfect for maintaining updated address books and the friendship of those people [however] far removed from the importance they'd once held in our lives. And of course it's always nice to stumble upon that minute or hour out of a generally bleak month to recapture our own heightened sense of expectation. Happiness comes from that unconscious resolve not to be disappointed. Children [sometimes thankfully] don't seem to notice the difference between a morning you've gone heavily into debt for and the one where you have broken up the bag of tube socks to wrap individually. But when the year-end bonuses disappear, so does much of my sense of a 'holiday'. ("This year's present to the family is...two more car payments and another month of uninterrupted trash collection!") I'll put it on for the kids, but my heart is in mourning for the unrealized earning potential. (Don't sweat it, Michael will buy him the 'Nano' whatsit!) A story- the first year we started attending a Quaker meeting they offered us a live tree from the property as well as an invitation to a holiday evening gathering of hymns and cookies. We were not resolved to accept either, and spent that evening shopping around for a tree. Our fruitless search ended at Home Depot where we were just heading out the door empty-handed and cranky when I made a few last minute purchases; a saw and a flashlight. In the dark of night we led our three-year-old son (a student of the preschool there) out into the little grove of trees along side of the meeting house. To the dampened sound of carols emanating from therein, I had him hold the flashlight as I unjoined our tree from the earth. (I think we may have been giggling). It was A.'s first Christmas with us. We cautioned him to stay quiet. The consequence of being discovered would necessitate our sitting through a good chunk of the book of Luke, as haltingly performed by seven or eight children swagged in upholstery remnants. That night, forecasting the charge I knew was to be his to answer to for at least the next fifteen years, I wanted him to have an early understanding of how things are not always done. (We've rewritten that script a hundred times over). And now, ten years later, he is completely on-board with the idea of a seven-foot high, pink toilet brush dominating our living room on Christmas morning although, as would be with most other kids, this is likely based on the hope that any given evening will end with a tangible major purchase. (I'm holding out for the tallest pink tree I can find- the on-line search begins tonight!). Well there we have it. A tirade against a green planet, some holiday humbuggery, and a humiliating tale about parenting a fir poacher. Where George Fox and Britney Spears may forgive me, Joyce Kilmer might never.