I was always traumatized by the story “The Little Tannenbaum”, but I mostly managed to ignore that until the last time I had a real tree. As I was discarding it after Christmas, one truly minute, tiny pine cone fell off, and I just burst into tears. It seemed at the time that in the midst of death, it was desperately trying to perpetuate itself, and it had lost. Normally I don’t get emotional about plants. Maybe it was a phase.
I’m definitely not the fake tree type either. No matter how you decorate them, they remind me of paintings of Elvis on velvet.
I don’t miss the part about dragging real trees into the house, cutting off the limbs that don’t look right, and wrestling them into the tree stand. Note: the tree trunk will always be too big for the tree stand. You will have to go out and buy another one. Then, once you get it, the tree will fit into it but it will lean in one direction or another. You will either have to lean it against the wall, or prop up two of the tree stand feet with Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. You don’t use that anymore anyway.
But none of the above is why I really don’t do Christmas trees. The real reason is, I have three dogs, two of whom are male, and a cat. Nothing makes a male dog happier than a tree inside the house. It’s very time-saving. And cats love to climb them and bat around those ornament thingies, especially the ones that have been passed down through your family for generations. That splat-crash sound does startle them a bit.