We’ve reached that time of year when I start my annual fretting about if I should finally make the switch to an artificial Christmas tree. My husband has been gently nudging me in that direction for years but I’ve always resisted.
Not even his claims that an artificial tree is better for the environment would sway me. Most especially after I found out that if you compost your tree it’s actually a win for the environment due to something called forest succession and biodiversity. But nice try husband, nice try.
Besides the environment there are a couple of real issues that have kept me from making the leap to a fake tree. The main one is tradition. I have never known a Christmas without a real tree. When I was a child my family would hike into the woods and we would actually cut down our own Christmas tree.
In theory it sounded like a magical winter experience wrapped up in family bonding and topped with a big bow of holiday joy. In reality it was God-awful. This is because it always felt like the temperature was at best -2 degrees and the snow we had to trudge through was up to at least our hips.
One year my dad had all of us wear snowshoes and it was hell. This is because snowshoes in the early 70s were still very, let’s call it, primitive. This was way before there was “ballistic-grade” snowshoes with “traction frames” and “steel DTX crampons.” (If you’re now wondering what a crampon is, you’re not alone. I had to google it and it helps the snowshoe dig into the snow.)
All of this is a far cry from the snowshoes my family was wearing. This archaic footwear was more akin to placing wooden tennis rackets on your feet and then braiding together twigs and other assorted forest floor debris to use as ties to secure the rackets to your boots.
You didn’t “walk” in these snowshoes because a normal gait was impossible. So much so that my brother said we all looked like the “Three Stooges if they were drunk.” Our progress in the snow was two parts lurch to one part stagger. And the inner thigh friction this “walk” caused was immense.
That, thank goodness, was my last time to snowshoe – almost. A couple of years ago I forced/guilted my husband and children to go snowshoeing with me. Why? I don’t know.
Maybe I thought decades of snowshoe technology would have elevated the experience. Maybe it was because I watched one too many Hallmark Holiday movies where snowshoeing looked like jaunty festive fun. It was none of those things.
The outing was stopped when my son asked, “When will this walk of doom ever end?” which prompted my daughter to plop down in the snow and remove her snowshoes while asking me, “Why do you hate us?” (An oft repeated refrain during her tween years.) It was at this point that snowshoeing was officially banned as a family activity.
Joining, just in case you’re interested, other banned activities from cross country skiing, because according to my kids it’s snowshoeing in disguise, to Scrabble. Yes, Scrabble because, apparently, I cheat. Which I think translates to they all got tired of losing to me.
Hmm, I think my fretting is now over. Behold all these “cherished” memories a real Christmas tree created. I just don’t think an artificial tree offers that experience. Maybe my family can even try cutting down our own tree. Yay, a family holiday outing full of adventure with axes and hand saws.
On second thought maybe not. I’m almost certain that experience would end up on the banned family activity list and I don’t want to make it any longer.
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Snarky in the Suburbs 