The Scruffiest Tree

When we were kids, we were fortunate enough to be able to cut our own Christmas trees, and of all our holiday traditions, getting the tree was definitely my favorite. We’d head out the back door and climb up the quarter mile path through the ravine to a grove of spruce trees that my grandmother had tasked my uncles with planting years before.

Our Christmas tree lot was deeply magical. The trees, by then, were magnificently tall, perfectly formed, and densely packed. We'd wander about and look at each one in search of the perfect tree. The snow laden branches would glisten in the sun, and every tree seemed prettier than the last. There was always much debate about which tree was the most perfect one of all, but in the end my dad would insist that whatever tree we cut, had to be a tree that by its removal, left the forest better off.

That was my dad. To own land was a privilege and an honor - it was not a commodity to sell or harvest lightly. It was our responsibility to care for, and to protect our land. It was all about “stewardship” not just about getting the perfect tree.

So, from this quintessential New England Christmas vision, we would haul home the scruffiest tree in the forest and lovingly give it the place of pride inside our home.