My grandfather is a Christmas tree farmer. I have many childhood memories of wandering through acres of Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce, and Fraser Fir at the Pine Tree Barn, which my family owns and operates. While other kids in the '80s were spending their summer in front of the television watching reruns of Growing Pains, I had a million little imaginary adventures out on the tree farm. As you might guess, by shear force of nostaglia, I'm adament about having a real tree for Christmas. Granted, plastic ones are safer, prettier, and easier, but that's just not Christmas. "Safer, prettier, easier" is the mission statement to suburban hell. Real trees are a pain in the ass. I nearly cut off my thumb last night sawing the end to prop it in the stand... merry Christmas.
On our first Christmas as a married couple, Melissa and I got a real tree for the Fort Worth apartment. The apartment was so small, the tree was literally two feet from my side of the bed. I'd roll out in the morning, and get pine needles in my face. Horribly inconvient... merry Christmas.
Melissa picked our tree this year, and it's beautiful. We decided to get a small one and put it on the kitchen table. With a 19 month Kennedy and a new dog, anything (tree or otherwise) not three feet off the ground will be destroyed, and still might... merry Christmas.