I am allergic to trees. That includes evergreens, aka Christmas trees. Therefore our Christmas tree lives in a box in the attic. It doesn’t grow – it’s girth and height are the same every year. It’s branches are evenly spaced and it has no smell. It is sufficient and I do not sneeze uncontrollably or scratch welts onto my arms and legs. This is good.
BUT. There is magic in a fresh cut Christmas tree. It’s not so much the tree itself as the tradition surrounding its acquirement. To set aside the time and organize one’s family/loved ones, strike forth out into nature, and together choose a tree while it is still connected to the earth – the tree which will stand in your home as a symbol of the life and joy and hope of Christmas – this is a very magical thing. It is a tradition I have always been jealous of.
This year I threw out the offer to accompany a local family and document their Christmas tree-cutting tradition. My good friend Jinny and her husband Bret graciously let me tag along with them to Schaer’s Country Market/Tree Farm. The photographer-voyeur in me had an amazing time and my Christmas tree envy was assuaged. Somewhat. I’m pretty sure their house smells better than mine.