We have the best Christmas tree EVER this year. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not vainly boasting about my decorating job or referring to the many beautiful ornaments now dangling from its sturdy green branches. I mean the tree itself — a 7-1/2-foot Frasier fir purchased at a home improvement box store (if you can believe it) — is perfect.
We have the best Christmas tree EVER this year.
Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not vainly boasting about my decorating job or referring to the many beautiful ornaments now dangling from its sturdy green branches.
I mean the tree itself — a 7-1/2-foot Frasier fir purchased at a home improvement box store (if you can believe it) — is perfect.
It’s perfectly shaped and full all around, with no gaping holes. It’s the perfect height; clearing our 8-foot ceilings with enough room for the angel to adorn the top, and for me to trim without perilously climbing on top of phonebooks piled on chairs in my platform shoes.
And for this perfection I have, ironically, my husband to thank. It’s ironic, in that my spouse is allergic to spruce, and countless other trees, shrubs and grass, and has entreated me for several years now to go faux.
But fake trees are definitely not my bag, and while I sympathize about his watery eyes, it’s only there for three weeks out of 52, and that’s what Benadryl’s for, right?
Resigned to enduring another pine-filled December, my husband joined me in my Christmas tree quest.
And it was he who held onto its trunk with a Kung Fu grip as I wandered around the vast store pulling out more trees and furtively assessing those claimed by other shoppers.
After all, the perfect pine was only the second tree we’d looked at and we’d only been standing out in the open air garden center in the December chill for a mere 10 minutes. I felt compelled to ascertain that there was no better tree in store waiting for us to bring it home.
“Would you focus,” my husband scolded as he saw me ogling another woman’s find.
“This one is great,” he said.
And he wasn’t the only one. I overheard several people comment as they walked by my husband — who was holding the tree so close to his trunk it appeared to be another appendage — “what a beautiful shape, it has.”
I could tell his patience was wearing thin so I agreed we’d found “the one” and we headed for the guy in the orange apron with the chainsaw and tree netting.
There was more consternation to come when we struggled to get the tree to stand straight in the stand and my husband found himself pinned below the boughs at the bottom, sticky with sap.
But once we corrected the list, and the lights and ornaments were hung, there was no denying it was one tannenbaum worth singing about:
After all, ‘Tis the wheezin’ to be jolly, fa la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.
Alice Coyle is the managing editor of GateHouse Media New England’s Raynham, Mass. office. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.