It’s traditional for our family to go Christmas tree shopping together, even though my kids are now 15 and 17 and practically leading their own lives.
This year was no exception. We found a brief window between my daughter’s clock-in time for her part-time job at a gift store and my son’s dentist appointment.
In previous years, we had invariably bought a tree from a Vermonter who set up camp in the parking lot of our local church.
When we lived in New York City before our children arrived, my husband and I would buy one from a friendly sidewalk vendor with a truck full of fir trees.
We decided to visit a nursery to purchase our Christmas tree
There was something magical about picking it out, throwing it over your shoulder, and bringing it up to your apartment, despite the pine needles that dropped in the elevator.
Still, as an immigrant from the UK, where people literally drag them home or transport them in the back of their vehicle, I still get a kick from seeing cars on the road with a tree strapped to the roof.
The guy from Vermont had failed to make the journey to our suburb for some reason this year. We chose to visit a nursery based on a friend’s recommendation.
It was packed, but there were scores of trees remaining tethered to poles.
Since it’s my daughter’s last Christmas before she heads off to college, we decided to make it extra special by getting a taller tree than usual.
The price of the tree was off the charts
She got first dibs on choosing, and after browsing the 9-foot and 10-foot sections, settled on the third one she saw.
I strolled off to look at some garlands, only to see my husband frantically waving his arms at me. “Get back in the car,” he mouthed, not wanting anyone to hear.
It turned out the tree that our daughter selected cost $370 — the equivalent of $37 a foot. I gasped in shock. I knew we lived in one of the most expensive counties in New York — if not the US — but the price was off the charts.
There was no way I was going to pay close to $400 for something that would grace our living room for less than a month. Even the kids acknowledged that it wasn’t worth the cash.
My childhood Christmas tree was recycled each year from the garden
The experience prompted me to reflect on my childhood in northeast England during the 1970s. A distant memory stirred in my mind.
I recalled how, several Decembers in a row, my dad dug up a 4-foot fir— for some reason nicknamed George — which was growing in our front garden.
George was so small and sparse, he could have belonged to Charlie Brown. But he’d replant him in a pot, and my sister, Alison, and I would decorate him with lights, tinsel, and ornaments.
Then, at the beginning of January, Dad would put him back in the ground until the end of that year. I suppose we were a green family, long before it became a thing.
I mentioned our search for a more affordable tree to my sister
George was unearthed one year too many and then died. It was a sad day. We had always been thrilled to watch George enter and exit the house every Christmas.
After the sticker shock over the $370 tree, I considered telling my kids that we would plant another George. But we ended up buying another 10-footer for just over $200 from a roadside stand.
Courtesy of the author
I mentioned our search for a more affordable tree to Ali. We reminisced about George. Two days later, she sent me a black-and-white photo from 1976 over WhatsApp.
She’d found a picture of 8-year-old me standing in our yard next to George. My mom had kept it at the bottom of a drawer all these years.
