Sorry boys, no plastic Christmas trees for us

This Christmas will mark the 42nd consecutive year a natural tree has graced our ancient log home.

Add to this three years of pine needles at our Huron Street apartment circa 1953 to 1956, which is now the location of city hall in Niagara Falls. In addition, there was a five-year stint at 623 First Ave. and a couple of years in Burlington. I think you will agree that a fair amount of scotch pines have been selected, trimmed and placed at various angles in our December homes.
We've heard all the arguments. Artificial trees are reusable, cleaner, safer and easier to assemble. And what about the new fibre optics? Sorry, but I just can't take that giant step out of the Black Forest and into a big box store. My wife and I stand bravely in front of our four sons each December armed with axes, saws, loping shears and a large bungee cord at the ready.
I remind them of a Christmas past when we drove to Barrie, cut 200 trees with the boy scouts under the supervision of the tree farm owner, who was celebrating the sale of the trees by consuming a fifth of rum and all of our lunches during the afternoon.
We also recall the bittersweet years when we endured the loss of parents, old friends and pets. Sorry boys, no plastic for us. Having said that I must admit that this year the tree nearly pushed me over the edge of tradition.
All the preliminary decisions were made. Many questions arose. Which charitable organization to buy from? What we might expect to pay?
Which trees were harvested in August and wrapped up tighter than grandma's girdle? What was the perfect height and which follies of the past must be avoided?
Finally, the local Lions club was decided upon and grandson Graham, my wife, Joan, and I arrived at their parking lot.
The car wheels had barely stopped rotating when we espied the tree that dreams are made of. It was a deep green colour. The perfect height for our somewhat lower than average ceilings and had a price tag of only $20. This was somewhat lower than our average pension cheque.
"Call me when you need me grandpa," said Graham, as he curled up for a much needed nap. Two standup comedians emerged from the trailer that always smells of ancient playing cards, stale beer and cigarette butts. These guys were really good. They presented us with two suckers that were symbolic of something I still can't quite comprehend.
"Say," said the taller of the vendors, who was certainly not a cowardly Lion, "let me trim a bit off the trunk of that tree for you." I nodded my ascent somewhat reluctantly and then gasped as a couple of feet of tree trunk, shaped roughly like a traffic circle, disappeared in a cascade of sawdust.

After a quick ride home, and a supper of french fries from the chip wagon, I unloaded the tree and let it stand for a day or two of orientation.

On trimming day I went out to the tree and discovered there was no possibility of this tree fitting into the stand since the branches were so low they crushed into its cylindrical walls.
Alas, it was deemed necessary that a further row or two of the branches must be trimmed from the bottom.
At last with the assistance of a couple of old tap handles the tree was secured and actually stood up.
"Hey grandpa," my oldest grandson said with a smirk. "That tree is rather short this year isn't it?"
"Well yes Al, but after all our family is not noted for its great height. I think that the tree can be raised somewhat by the use of an apple crate or two." At last, after a dizzy spell, or a push that nearly landed me in the fireplace, the tree was placed in the corner of honour and held in place by a five-foot bungee cord.
Just a day or two ago, my wife and youngest son finished the decorating. You know, something? I think its one of the most beautiful trees ever seen. I burst with pride as I look down at the brightest star atop the tree as it bravely casts out its festive rays toward the ceiling some four feet above. Merry Christmas everyone.
It really doesn't matter if the tree is artificial or natural, or tall or short, or even a gaily lit fig tree similar to my late sister-in-law's. Just keep the spirit of Christmas genuine and true in your heart and your tree will stand 100 feet high and leave a memory forever.