2008 Woodie Awards
The search for the perfect tree isn't always perfect
Nicole Dellasanta
Issue date: 12/7/04 Section: Feature of the Week: Holiday Horrors
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Ah, the Christmas season. The only time of the year when tidings of joy fill the hearts of every person from ages one to 92. The only time of the year when it's considered cool to visit crazy old Uncle Bob, cheap perfume-reeking Aunt Ginny, and, of course, hillbilly cousin Carl. The only time of the year when hot cocoa actually surpasses alcohol or Gatorade as the choice beverage for college students.
And of course, the only time of the year when the colorful lights and beautiful decorations of Christmas trees in every living room window are visible to passersby on snow-covered city sidewalks.
Ah, the Christmas tree. The culmination of everything that is Christmas. From the angel or star on top to the little red house you made out of a mini-milk carton back in kindergarten (which has turned orange by now), every decoration tells a story and lets awed observers know how much work went into assembling the finished green giant.
What those spruced-up branches don't tell you, however, is the story behind all the hanging candy canes and tiny bells. Don't let the little wooden soldiers hanging perfectly off those green pine leaves fool you; there's more to that tree than all its decorations. Once upon a time, that tree was just another plain choice in a sea of green...
I was already awake and brushing my teeth early on the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving when my little brother came downstairs to tell me that we were leaving to go Christmas-tree shopping in the next five minutes, and I'd better hurry up if I wanted to go. So I skipped breakfast, piled into the backseat of our ancient blue van along with my brother and two sisters, and listened to the ever-pleasing melodies of "White Christmas" on the radio while we drove to Evergreen Farms in Sterling to search for the prefect tree.
It was 9:30 a.m. when we got there; my mother had insisted we go before the expected downpours came. Even though I hadn't been awake this early on a Sunday morning since I was in high school, and even though the sky resembled an overcast day in March rather than a snowy, late-November morning, I could feel something special in the air. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch some of that unmistakable Christmas spirit that was floating around the farm, but all I smelled was citrus pine. That smell was just as pleasing, so I settled for the pine scent and hurried over to join the rest of my family at the welcoming table.
And of course, the only time of the year when the colorful lights and beautiful decorations of Christmas trees in every living room window are visible to passersby on snow-covered city sidewalks.
Ah, the Christmas tree. The culmination of everything that is Christmas. From the angel or star on top to the little red house you made out of a mini-milk carton back in kindergarten (which has turned orange by now), every decoration tells a story and lets awed observers know how much work went into assembling the finished green giant.
What those spruced-up branches don't tell you, however, is the story behind all the hanging candy canes and tiny bells. Don't let the little wooden soldiers hanging perfectly off those green pine leaves fool you; there's more to that tree than all its decorations. Once upon a time, that tree was just another plain choice in a sea of green...
I was already awake and brushing my teeth early on the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving when my little brother came downstairs to tell me that we were leaving to go Christmas-tree shopping in the next five minutes, and I'd better hurry up if I wanted to go. So I skipped breakfast, piled into the backseat of our ancient blue van along with my brother and two sisters, and listened to the ever-pleasing melodies of "White Christmas" on the radio while we drove to Evergreen Farms in Sterling to search for the prefect tree.
It was 9:30 a.m. when we got there; my mother had insisted we go before the expected downpours came. Even though I hadn't been awake this early on a Sunday morning since I was in high school, and even though the sky resembled an overcast day in March rather than a snowy, late-November morning, I could feel something special in the air. I inhaled deeply, trying to catch some of that unmistakable Christmas spirit that was floating around the farm, but all I smelled was citrus pine. That smell was just as pleasing, so I settled for the pine scent and hurried over to join the rest of my family at the welcoming table.