Cutting the Christmas tree ourselves is a significant tradition that dates well back to the years before I was married, with the whole family going together to select and cut it, as we still do. The ranks have grown considerably over the decades and have included guests from foreign countries.

This year we went to our favorite tree farm on a hillside outside the quaint hamlet of Singers Glen with all of our children and grandchildren, the youngest just four months old. Quite an adventure. The little people were especially excited, but a good time was had by all. Finding the candy cane tree is the ultimate challenge. Weary from the steep incline, three yr. old granddaughter Emma confided to me, “Dumma (as I’m called because our oldest grandson couldn’t say his G’s so Gumma became Dumma) this gonna be a hard day finding that candy cane tree.” But we did. A happy shout from our son-in-law sent everyone tramping off down another side of the hill.

To mix things up this year, my college art major daughter, Elise, suggested we get the ugliest tree we could find for our immediate household and see what we could do with it. Six year old Ian thought this was a great idea, however, after he’d helped cut it, Ian asked, “Dad has out tree, right?” He didn’t want to get stuck with a dud. 

The couple who own the tree farm were glad someone still liked Charlie Brown trees, thinking they’d never sell this one. Not only do they have a beautiful farm, but a wonderful old spring house where the wife serves hot chocolate and visits with guests by a cozy fire in the vintage hearth and children are invited to choose an ornament to take home from their decorated tree. This is the best Christmas tree farm ever.

Visitors from China who’ve stayed with my parents over the years have found this tradition of trekking off to cut an evergreen ourselves rather fascinating, as they do the whole concept of stuffing a large tree into our house and decorating it with eclectic baubles, like the glittered light bulbs our son made when he was in first grade, or the dough angel with glasses my brother created some time ago. But that’s another story.

In the beginning of our marriage my hubby didn’t yet grasp the importance of this communal tree-gathering experience, the snow or mud squelching beneath our boots, haggling over the merits of every pine and spruce on the tree farm honored by our presence. Shortly before December 25th, that first year of wedded bliss, DH turned up with a tree he’d purchased from the local rescue squad––already cut.

I sadly contemplated the little evergreen and tried to make it my own, but this was not to be. Realizing his gross error, Dennis accompanied me at his first opportunity to a neighbor’s farm where we were given free rein to choose a tree from the field that had gone to cedars. After careful searching, he sawed down the tree of our choice, with far less debate than there is now with all the added opinions.

Still, there were difficulties. We hadn’t ever cut a cedar on our own before and didn’t realize how they sometimes grow. When we cut the trunk shorter to fit in the stand, it fell apart into three trees, none of them suitable. 

My father, a veteran cedar cutter, took me for the third and final time to choose a tree from the farm our family had traditionally patronized. By this point Dennis, Mom and Dad all agreed that I was becoming somewhat obsessive about the whole thing and perhaps there’s some justification in this, but the pressure was on to select the most perfect tree ever, like Papa Bear in The Berenstein Bears Christmas.

We finally found one, after considerable searching on my part and growing impatience on my father’s, not to mention cold feet. I decorated it lovingly in the little apartment Dennis and I lived in then, but I didn’t bask in its presence for long. The apartment just wasn’t home, so I spent most of the holidays at my parents’ house in front of their tree.

This year Elise and I decorated our ‘challenged’ tree with strings of popcorn and lights, as it’s rather skimpy to hold the traditional ornaments. All in all, it’s not a bad little tree. Quite pretty, really. Ian is impressed.

*Pics are of the grandchildren, my daughter and daughter in law, the hearth in the old spring house.

INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW>

Have you taken down your Christmas decorations already?

Do you follow rules set by family traditions of just what other people say you should do?

Have you looked at your goals for 2009, if you put them in writing?
Were they personal, professional and both? (Did you put them in categories? Be honest if you did, don't be embarrassed.)

Have you set goals for 2010? (Same as above) How many did you carry over from 2009 and 2008?

Did you party on New Year's Eve?

Do you think life should be a party?

Surely you have something to say about at least one of these!

Caroling, a Christmas tradition contemplated with nostalgia and fondness can, in reality, be an exhausting ordeal for the carolers as well as the carolees. One December, many moons ago, my husband cleaned up our big old farm truck so that the young parents and children from our church could brighten that wintry evening for the elderly and shut-ins.

Bundled against the frosty air, we clambered into the back of the truck. Some of the less agile women and small children had to be lifted by a few of the husky men and pitched into the bed, still smelling of manure (the truck, not the women and children). Then my husband revved up the motor and off we lurched into the starry night, singing merrily.

As our crowd of carolers overwhelmed the smaller homes and apartments, some of the shut-ins had to be assisted out of their cozy chairs, or warm beds (at least one was down for the night, or so they’d thought) to stand on frigid porches, leaning on canes, clutching a shawl to their shoulders, to smile and wave, expressing their pleasure that yet another group brimming with Yuletide cheer had remembered them. I wondered if they later requested that the church remove their names from the list of shut-ins.

Those individuals with ample room invited us in for refreshments, insisting we share the trove of cookies we and other groups had brought them. It wasn’t long before the children launched into sugar highs and we adults, who hated to disappoint our hosts, began to feel rather ill from all the  treats we’d consumed–worsened by the jouncing truck.

And then there was the problem with our route. Not having planned it very efficiently, a member of our zealous band would suddenly remember some neglected soul across town which meant a long chilly ride in the teeth of the biting wind. Despite our exhaustion and rising queasiness, we felt compelled to push ever forward, dragging our fussy children along, to bring the joy of Christmas at last to the needy folk in the nursing home.

As we trooped up the hall, I overheard one elderly resident, weary but resigned, comment, “We’ve had carolers every night this week.”

And that, my friends, is the last time I ever went caroling.  But for those of you who insist on this holiday undertaking, I suggest giving your route some thought beforehand, limit the number of homes you visit.  Here’s a wild thought, maybe even call ahead to see if people actually want carolers.  I don’t–unless you’re wearing costumes like the ones  in A Christmas Carol and sing those lovely Old English tunes.  Also,  find some other transport besides the back of a freezing cold  farm truck, and bring treats you actually want to eat because they will be offered to you.

Has a year really passed since last Thanksgiving? According to the calendar and the media it has. Halloween was only yesterday, or so it seems. Walk into any retail store and you'll think it's Christmas. Actually for many of us it might as well be. According to tradition I should drag out my Christmas tree on Thanksgiving or at least the weekend after that. Well, guess what? I didn't dismantle mine. I removed the decorations and shoved the tree in a corner.

Let's talk tradition. Got your turkey for Thanksgiving or does your family prefer ham?
Will you pull out strings of lights and test them, replacing the burned out bulbs? Will you go wild and decorate your house inside and out? Will you start addressing your Christmas cards to mail out while your still eating Thanksgiving left overs?

Since my parents are gone and my brother and sister and have married kids, we spend fewer holidays with our kids. We once divided our holiday time between our families and the in-laws. Now our kids have in-laws.

We'll share our kids again with their in-laws and their little families.

Will you give parties or meet friends for parties? Will you attend plays or be part of Christmas programs?

Tell us about the traditions you miss and the ones you are starting.

By Beth Trissel

Caroling, a Christmas tradition contemplated with nostalgia and fondness can be, in reality, an exhausting ordeal for the carolers as well as the carolees. One December, many moons ago, my husband cleaned the poultry manure out of our big farm truck so that the young parents and children from our church could brighten that wintry evening for the elderly and shut-ins.
Bundled against the frosty air, we clambered into the back of the truck. Some of the less agile women and small children had to be lifted by a few of the husky men and pitched into the bed, still redolent of turkeys (the truck, not the women and children). Then my husband revved up the motor and off we lurched into the starry night, singing merrily.

As our crowd of carolers overwhelmed the smaller homes and apartments, some of the shut-ins had to be assisted out of their cozy chairs, or warm beds (at least one was down for the night, or so they’d thought) to stand on frigid porches, leaning on canes, clutching a shawl to their shoulders, to smile and wave, expressing their pleasure that yet another group brimming with Yuletide cheer had remembered them. I wondered if they later requested that the church remove their names from the list of shut-ins.

Those individuals with ample room invited us in for refreshments, insisting we share the trove of cookies we and other groups had brought them. It wasn’t long before the children launched into sugar highs and we adults, who hated to disappoint our hosts, began to feel rather ill from all the Christmas treats we'd consumed--worsened by the jouncing truck.

And then there was the problem with our route. Not having planned it very efficiently, a member of our zealous band would suddenly remember some neglected soul across town which meant a long chilly ride in the teeth of the biting wind. Despite our exhaustion and rising queasiness, we felt compelled to push ever forward, dragging our fussy children along, to bring the joy of Christmas at last to the needy folk in the nursing home. As we trooped up the hall, I overheard one elderly resident, weary but resigned, comment, “We’ve had carolers every night this week.”

Her friend turned to her saying, “But it means so much to them, dear.”