A far cry from Christmas of old, but we have no room in the apartment for a full sized tree and despite our resolve to do without one this year, I presented this one for approval.
Dad thinks it's tacky. Mom thinks it's sweet. We win.
It's just a little wink to the season, a smidgen of Joyeux Noel.
When I was growing up, my maternal grandfather's family owned a Christmas tree farm in the mountains outside of Placerville. Grizzly Flat. They still operate a tree farm, though in a different location since the patriarchs passed away.
Helping out on the farm during Christmas season is one of my happiest childhood memories. We would bounce around the hills in an old open jeep with Missy, his black Labrador retriever, and the ever present stream of grandpa's cigarette smoke. I can see the old man's hands gripping the wheel: stained yellow and brown, nails ragged and dirty with tree pitch and soil. The smell of gasoline and motor oil oscillating with the sharp green smell of fresh cut trees.
My cousins and I were given the task of making wreaths, and there was a little shed devoted to it, with a foot pedal operated contraption that squeezed shut the heavy gauge wire to secure the greens to the round frame. We embellished with pine cones and berries, and thrilled when someone marveled over them and actually purchased one.
So, this year's little quasi Charlie Brown tree is my humble salute to the season. For me, the tree farm days are long, long gone. And that's okay. $9.99 for a little holiday cheer delivers a lot of bang for the buck. Stunning realism? Unsurpassed quality? Not. Happiness? Definitely.
