I know nothing about Christmas trees – I was raised Jewish. My childhood memory is of seeing them sold by boy scouts around town or later, post-college, by folks from Vermont and Canada who travelled south every year to sell them by the truckload on the streets of New York. In all cases, the trees were left to lean on simple A-frames. In my mind they are always slightly askew.
Grace’s family’s tradition is to pick a tree the day after Thanksgiving when everyone is still around to share the event. They always go to the same nursery, at the same time of day. Over the years it has grown from a one car outing to a four car caravan.
At the nursery we visit the trees are displayed hanging from rafters, forming many rows of floating, moving greenery. A slight touch somewhere can cause trees many rows over to move and sway. I can see how a child would love it. Running through the aisles, disappearing and reappearing, playing hide and seek. The smell of pine.
This year’s tree was chosen for its color, shape, and because it had the remnants of a bird’s nest in it – a good luck sign, I learned. It’s a nice tradition. The afternoon light, the chill in the air. The flower beds are bare and the sense of hibernation is everywhere. It’s getting dark, winter is coming, the nursery will lay dormant until the light and the warmth return in the spring.