I miss the smell of a real Christmas tree. We have been using a fake one for several years, and it is beautiful. And, well, an imitation. I doesn’t bring back memories I hold dearly the fragrance of Pine does.
Where I grew up there were large tree farms, nestled into the foothills. I couldn’t WAIT to go pick out our tree. We’d carefully search the rows, walking around looking for bare spots, Dad checking the trunk for straightness. This is a tradition we were able to carry on with our girls each time we’d go back home, until a few years ago when the last hold out finally sold their land for real estate development. The farm would tag our tree until we came back to pick it up close to Christmas. Wonderful memories, mostly.
There was that one year. Remember those foothills? One farm had rather steep developments so the trees were in levels. My dad thought it would be funny to go one row down. Just as I leaned in (evening, mind you. As the years go by, the darker it becomes) he reached out and grabbed my ankle to startle me. It was effective. I didn’t laugh, and as I remember, I don’t think my mother did either. Ah, but that was just one memory.
The rest were pure delight.
When I was around 8, a crafty afternoon was spent creating this beautiful angel tree topper. Foil wrapped T.P. tube, curling ribbon mane of gold. I was proud for about one Christmas.
Her beauty faded in my eyes, but not for my parents. They refused to remove her for some years, and by the time they did, I started to feel nostalgic for her. I am grateful she is still snugly tucked into their box of decorations.
I begged for her return a few years back, and to see my dad placing her on the top brought a daughter’s heart delight.