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| At our old home, trees soared to fouteen feet |
I believe in Christmas trees
with a zeal only a convert can possess.
Having grown up in South Florida in an era when the idea of flying in
fresh-cut Nova Scotia firs was the stuff of science fiction, my family made do
with Scotch pines that had already lost half their needles before they appeared
the day after Thanksgiving at the Lions Club lot.
Since migrating to New England
some 35 years ago, I have become a connoisseur of fresh-cut trees, able to
discuss the particular merits of Frasers and concolor firs, balsams, and
spruces. I believed in soaring trees: for
16 years, our trees rose as high as our cathedral ceiling would allow; some
years more than 14 feet. Whatever their
height, our trees fill our home with the wonderful scent that only a Christmas
tree can bring.
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| This year's tree had to fit under an 8' ceiling, but what it lacked in height it made up for in girth |
This Christmas was our first in
our new home. The vaulted ceiling of our
old home has been supplanted by an energy-efficient eight-foot one. So, naturally, we traded height for
girth. The Fraser fir that came into our
home on December 18 had branches that stretched an improbable four feet from
the trunk at it base, giving the tree an eye-popping circumference of 25 feet. It took seven strings - 900 lights - to
satisfy Betty that there were no gaps in its brilliance.
Our trees are the history of our
lives, from my baby shoes and delicate ornaments from the 1930s handed down
from Betty’s family, to a wealth of travel mementos repurposed as decorations. Boxes bearing tiny bells and crystal icicles
still bear the name of long-vanished stores - B. Altmans, Woodward &
Lothrop - where they were purchased decades ago at prices that seem to be
missing a digit.
But a Christmas tree is an
ephemeral visitor. Some friends,
especially those with young children, keep their tree lighted beyond Twelfth
Night. In our home, the tree goes up a
week before Christmas and comes down on New Year’s Day. Regardless of the duration, though, the tree
must eventually make its exit.
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| The lower boughs now protect a slumbering hosta garden, among other places |
For our trees, those two weeks
of glory are just a stage in a longer journey.
On the appointed morning after our tree has been ‘de-consecrated’ of its
ornamentation but still in its stand in our home, I bring in a pair of sturdy
loppers and begin cutting off those lower branches (an enormous sheet of
plastic is a necessity).
The branches are dispersed to
insulate perennials and low-growing shrubs.
They offer a layer of protection from unwanted sun and its resulting
harmful freeze-thaw cycles. They lessen
the impact of frost heaves and unwelcome animal visitors. This year, the lower four feet of our tree
yielded some 30 branches that were deployed to all corners of our
property. At our old home, we scavenged
trees from up and down our street to cover our extensive perennial beds. As our new garden grows, so may we return to
that tradition.
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| The upper four feet will provide an avian wind break and shelter |
After the lower boughs were
removed there remained another lush four feet of tree with thick branches. We left those on the still-eight-foot trunk
and placed the tree at the edge of the wetlands behind us. Almost all of the trees in our wetlands are
deciduous; the lone evergreens are thin white pines. Our Christmas tree will serve as a refuge for
birds seeking shelter from wind, rain, and snow.
In April, we will collect the
fir boughs and take them to our town’s transfer station where they will be
chipped into mulch. A month later, as
the remaining fir loses its needles, that remnant, too, will begin its final
journey.
