Growing up, my family was firmly in the Team Fake camp when it came to Christmas trees. Every year, right after Thanksgiving, we would haul down an old, battered box from the attic, held together with masking tape, revealing our well-worn artificial tree. This was back in the ’90s, before pre-lit options were available, meaning we had to untangle a mess of lights every year. It often turned into a family affair, as we spent hours shaping each branch, checking the lights, and setting up the stand. Does this sound familiar to any other fake tree families?
Once our tree was up, my sister and I would head over to our grandparents’ place, where we’d repeat the process with their fake tree. I can still picture my grandmother, glue gun in hand, meticulously repairing branches while squinting through her bifocals. I often wondered how old that tree was; as a kid, it felt like it had been around since the dawn of time.
As an adult, my mind is still filled with memories of artificial trees. I think about the lively conversations with my siblings, the excitement that filled the air. Sure, there were moments of frustration—like burning my fingers with hot glue or getting pinched by those quirky branch hinges. Yet, by the time we finished, that tree had a unique charm, much like a well-loved family recipe that holds the flavor of countless holidays.
Ironically, I found myself falling in love with my future wife, Jessica, while we worked together at a Christmas tree lot. The first time I held a real tree was at a local hardware store, where I unloaded them from a delivery truck. The scent was intoxicating, and I was genuinely impressed by Jessica’s strength as she effortlessly carried those trees off the truck.
When we got married, Jessica was adamant about having a real Christmas tree, but I was hesitant. I wanted our holiday to resemble my childhood traditions, and the idea of buying a dead tree—only to have it shed needles everywhere—seemed absurd. It felt like a waste of money and time spent vacuuming up the mess.
I voiced my concerns, but Jessica looked at me as if I’d just suggested we skip Christmas entirely. “It’s not about the cost; we need a real tree. Christmas isn’t complete without it!” she insisted. I rolled my eyes but eventually gave in.
I didn’t completely embrace the change that first holiday season. The delightful scent was a plus, but the needles were a nuisance. We often forgot to water the tree, leaving some of the branches brown by Christmas day. I even broke our vacuum trying to clean up the aftermath.
For a few years, our debates about real versus fake trees continued. Sometimes we’d use the artificial one, other times we’d opt for a real tree. We even argued about the environmental impact, both being eco-conscious at heart. I would argue against cutting down trees, while Jessica would counter that we didn’t need more plastic waste in landfills. It’s amusing in retrospect; the environmental implications seemed to cancel each other out.
It wasn’t until we had kids that I began to sway from Team Fake to Team Real. Living in Oregon, we’re lucky to have a tree farm just ten miles from our home. Each year, we take the kids on an adventure through the snowy trees, selecting the perfect one to chop down. The elderly gentleman who runs the farm hands me a bow saw, and I work up a sweat while cutting it down.
This experience is nothing like the chaotic tree-hunting scene from Christmas Vacation; it’s more like a luxurious glamping version of tree cutting. Still, it’s a cherished family moment, one that brings us together as we haul the tree to our old pickup truck, which only sees the light of day for this occasion each year.
Once we bring the tree home, we gather as a family to set it up. We savor the scent, get sap on our hands, and enjoy classic holiday tunes. This ritual has become our family tradition. While my childhood was marked by fake trees, my family now cherishes the experience of cutting down a real one together.
In twenty years, if my son were to write a similar reflection, he might grumble about how annoying it was to trek through the woods and saw down a tree, only to carry it a quarter mile to the truck. However, I’m sure he will recount it with a grin, as we all do when reminiscing about our family’s quirky holiday customs.
Holidays always come with their share of ups and downs, and the Great Tree Debate is no exception. For me, the conclusion is clear: it’s real trees all the way. This is our annual tradition, and I plan to keep it alive for as long as I can. I’m certain that if you’re reading this, you have your own opinion on the matter. Ultimately, it all circles back to family traditions.
Let’s engage in this conversation—what team are you on?