The search for the “perfect” Christmas tree was a recurring task for many years in our house. It was predetermined by my wife that the tree must be placed in its anointed position no more or less than two weeks prior to Christmas. This would require several scouting missions to nearby tree lots. It never ceased to amaze me how she determined what standards a tree must meet if it were to grace our household.

Naturally, the size of our living quarters was the paramount criteria whether we were living in a small apartment or a 16-room house. It had to be an authentic Scotch pine, pear shaped and with tiered limbs whose length varied from top to bottom in proportion to its height. She never brought a tape measure but seemed to know instinctively whether or not it would fit with room to spare for the golden angel that topped its verdant spire.

As a silent observer to the process, I had little to contribute other than my wallet. However, I must admit that she was a shrewd buyer and never failed to utter the bargain hunter’s slogan, “Is that the best you can do?” On one such occasion, she even returned a tree that just didn’t look right when I finally set it up in our living room. You can imagine the astonished look on the face of the lot owner when we came tromping back with our tree and demanded a more suitable one.

The task of fitting the tree trunk into the stand always fell upon me in what my wife considered to be my appropriate role in the process. Regardless of whether the trunk was bent at a ninety-degree angle or several inches too wide for the stand, I had to make certain that it was straight and tall prior to receiving its festive ornaments. One year she had the flu just two weeks prior to Christmas and I was given the task to go forth and bring back the “right” tree for a house with a 16-foot living room and a fireplace.

My sons and I dutifully visited several nearby towns and made a selection. I was proud of our accomplishment as I tied the tree atop the car and we wended our way home humming “O Tannenbaum.” I hauled the tree inside the house and proudly stood it up in the living room for her inspection. She arose from her sick bed and circumnavigated me and the tree as I awaited her approval of a task well done. I should have known better. You would have thought that I was Charlie Brown by her disdainful tone as she said, “Is that the best you could do?”

The only other time that I had courage enough to select a tree was when we were living in Virginia and she had to have a cedar instead of a Scotch pine. Their blue, waxy berries would make a decorative addition to our home. Since there weren’t any on sale at the various tree lots, I was directed to a farm lot with a preponderance of cedars.

 With the farmer’s assistance, I cut down an eight-foot cedar, complete with berries and dragged it back to the car. Putting it into the stand and setting it up in the family room proved to be a prickly proposition as the fragrant cedar’s needles left red welts on my bare flesh.

I’m much older and somewhat wiser now as I await her clarion call that it’s time to put the tree up. A quick trip to the storage room for the large cardboard box containing a perfectly symmetrical, unscented, faux fir is as close I get to a live tree these days.