The search for the perfect Christmas tree is an annual mission that looks different each year but brings forth more-or-less the same results: a festive conifer presiding over the living room for several weeks.
I don’t remember how old I was the year we drove the minivan across the hayfield at my grandparents house in Oxford County to the tree line at the back. We still had the minivan, so I couldn’t have been very old. I remember that my parents tied the tree down on the roof of the vehicle, which was deeply concerning to me; I couldn’t figure out how we were going to get all the way home without the tree falling off.
(We made it home in one piece, and so did the tree.)
There were a couple years in my late teens where I would go over to my aunt’s old pasture with a saw and spend a blissful few hours searching out the best tree around the edges of the forest. Deep in the pine woods, there is no point in looking for a Christmas tree; the small evergreens that fill the gaps between the pines are thin, spindly, and resemble the Charlie Brown tree in the cartoon. But the trees around the fringe of the forest have better access to sunlight, and they grow more round and full. They are also in the process of taking over the pasture, so my aunt was happy to let us thin out the bunch.
One year, the best woods tree I could find was the top eight feet of a twelve-foot tree, so we took the whole tree and used the bottom portion for wreath-making.
During 2020, things were tight thanks to the pandemic, so I strayed from the traditional evergreen tree. My grandparents brought over an ancient stepladder that was once my great-grandfather’s, and I painted it green, decorated it with lights, and set it in the living room for my ‘tree.’
It was not my own idea: my great-great-grandfather did this once, over one hundred years ago, when funds were tight for his own family. I still have this Christmas Ladder, although I have gone to a fresh tree again.
But with these few exceptions, most of the Christmas tree hunts I remember took place at McClure’s Tree Nursery. They have been generally uneventful, but consistently fun.
As a teenager, for the years when I wasn’t getting lost in the evergreens at my aunt’s house, my older brother and I would go over to McClure’s with the old suburban. We’d wander the racks of cut trees and find one appropriately sized – about six or eight inches taller than my six-foot-tall brother.
It’s like a game of hide-and-seek, or a logic puzzle – finding a tree that meets all of our criteria. It should be fir, not spruce – spruce has sharp needles that are less friendly than fir needles. It should be full and equal on all sides if we are placing it in the window, or full and equal on at least three sides if we are setting it in a corner of the living room.
For the last few years, it has been my youngest brother and I heading out in search of the tree. We take my pickup truck – it is easier than tying a tree to the roof, or vacuuming out the needles in the carpet in the back of the suburban.
In past years, neither of us reached that six-foot-tall mark, so it was a guessing game on how tall the tree should be. Adam, over at McClure’s, has a measuring stick to check the height, but I am used to the multiple-purpose brother measuring stick.
Last year, the tree we picked out hit the ceiling, so we had to perform some minor cosmetic surgery in the middle of the living room.
This year, my youngest brother towers over me. My friend and I went out to the tree farm in search of a tree for Mom and Dad’s house, and he came along with us for two reasons: to give his artistic opinion on the tree and to serve as a measuring stick.
We wandered the racks of cut trees and examined our options, finally settling on a tall balsam fir with a trim silhouette that will fit neatly in the double French doors with bookcases to either side. Adam loaded it up, we handed over the cash, and off we went.
Each year the search for the Christmas tree is different. But wandering through the trees, breathing in the scent of sap and fresh air, and making a careful choice that is, at the end of the day, entirely inconsequential? It is one of my favorite parts of the season.
Inspired by the author’s love of Mount Abraham, or Mount Abram for locals, Thoughts from the Summit is a column celebrating and exploring the great outdoors in and around Maine’s High Peaks region.
