Christmas trees: Wanted dead or alive?

Last year's tree

I don’t often watch “Shark Tank,” the ABC reality program in which aspiring entrepreneurs attempt to secure funding, because the potential investors are often unnecessarily mean, and this makes me uncomfortable. But “Shark Tank” happened to be on after “Jeopardy” one night, and I watched an episode in which a Manhattan Beach man pitched his idea for a potted holiday tree rental business. He called his company “The Living Christmas Company.” I loved it. But more importantly, billionaire Mark Cuban loved it. He invested $150,000 for 40 percent of the business. You can learn more about the clever concept here.

I’m not a tree hugger per se, but I have mixed feelings about traditional Christmas trees. I do enjoy the smell of fresh evergreen. And decorating a tree has a way of formally ushering in the holiday season. Of course, after just a few weeks of merriment, a living beauty 10 years or more in the making becomes mulch.

Throughout my childhood, my family often traveled during the holiday season, so we seldom purchased a tree. For a few years, we resorted to lugging around a 5-foot-tall plastic replica so thin it appeared fashioned from giant green pipe cleaners. It consisted of three sections stacked together and when held upside down, the “branches” of each section collapsed like an umbrella to facilitate easy storage. One year, the Christmas my family road tripped to North Carolina with my dad’s brother’s family, the rubbery ficus tree gracing our rented cabin became the impromptu holiday centerpiece. We children composed (and enthusiastically sang) a special song for that tree. It went something like this:

“Oh, ficus tree, oh, ficus tree,
Your leaves are so plastic-y.
Dinosaurs died to make your trunk,
Oh, thank goodness they didn’t flunk.”

If my family purchased a live tree, it would be one of those foot-tall potted ones -- the saddest, most pathetic tree the home improvement store carried. Like many kids raised on “Charlie Brown” holiday television specials, my sister and I were naturally drawn to such trees; like neglected puppies, they needed our love more than the full, healthy ones did. And so we’d shower these spindly specimens in affection haphazardly assembled from Cheerios and Froot Loops and ugly ornaments Hailey and I shaped from whatever art supplies happened to be on hand. Sometimes, when we felt especially creative, we’d toss on garland fashioned from toilet paper. Yes, it was simply magical.  After the holidays, we took the tree home and planted it in the yard so we could watch it grow. One such tree, mistakenly situated by my parents’ front door, grew so large that it threatened to uproot the front steps and so, sadly, had to be cut down. 

A salvaged tree goes up in flames

As teens, my Lake Worth, Fla., cousins had their own unique holiday tree tradition: Starting on the day after Christmas, they climbed into a golf cart and patrolled their neighborhood for trees kicked to the curb. These they dragged into their backyard and “recycled” by torching them in the enormous fire pit. No, this wasn’t exactly “green,” and it probably wasn’t even legal. Nor was it responsible. Not so long ago, the bonfire got a tad out of hand, and an overhanging Royal Poinciana tree crisped. But at least those poor, discarded trees brought a second round of joy to the young and young at heart. Like heathens, my cousins watched the hungry flames lick and devour the dry, cracking needles. If Hailey and I happened to be around, we’d happily join them. Pyromania, as everyone knows, is contagious.

I admit to being a certifiably "Scooged" adult; I am annoyed by the increasing commercialization of Christmas, and so I’ve been plugging my ears against the incessant melody of holiday music since October, when most of the local stores began pumping it from their speakers. Matt and I have neglected to purchase a tree – even a potted one -- or hang holiday decorations. Our families swore off gifts for everyone but the children because, frankly, we don’t need anything and because we stubbornly refuse to be swept up in all this shopping mayhem (not in a million years could you drag me to the mall right now). While this all sounds quite pompous, I can’t express enough what a relief it is not to worry about gifts this year, to know we’re spending our money on the most important thing to us: traveling to visit family. I'm not purporting to be better (and certainly not more pious) than traditional holiday revelers -- just maybe more frugal.  

Yesterday, Matt told me about the 20-foot Christmas trees corralled in the Camino de Real tree lots he passes during his daily work commute. I was shocked. How much would a tree like that cost? Who had room in their house for such a tree? And, most perplexing, how on earth would they transport it home?

I searched for Matt’s behemoth Christmas trees today while driving past the same lots, and I think he must be mistaken; What he thought were giant, post-chopping block firs are actually still-living pines framing the railroad tracks. Somehow, that knowledge made me happy. Bah humbug.