Bring Back Big Families

Old Man: “You know, Zudock just bought one of those brand new… green plastic trees.”

Tree Guy: “Oh no!“

Old Man: “Darn thing looks like it was made out of…green pipe cleaners.”

[Both men laugh.]

Mom: “This is a very nice tree.”

Tree Guy: “I’ll throw in some rope and tie it to your car for you.”

Old Man: “You got a deal.”

Tree Guy: “Deal.”

One of my favorite parts from one of my favorite Christmas movies.

I mentioned in a previous Christmas post (here) that I would one day write about my fake Christmas tree qualms.

That day is today.

Every year, every time I retrieve our fake 7 ft. Christmas tree from the garage, I feel this pang hit me deep in my chest about putting out the fake tree in the living room. Every single year, I despise having to take it out of the box, pull all three sections out of it, put them together in the stupid X stand that never works quite right, all before the nightmare that is (oh the horror!) fluffing the branches.

“Hey, kids! Let’s fluff the branches of our Christmas tree!” said no one with a real tree ever. Gag me.

A real tree is superior in every imaginable way, from picking it out to the looks to the smell to the setup. There is nothing about a fake tree that’s any fun. Nothing. No smell. No watering. No needles. No instant setup. Nothing.

Oh sure, you can reuse your fake tree a thousand times, but there’s something special about the real deal.

Every December, as I stand there fluffing those stubborn plastic branches for the umpteenth time, I think back to that tree lot scene in A Christmas Story with the Old Man proudly hauling home a real Fraser fir while mocking the neighbor’s sad green pipe cleaner abomination.

And I get it. Deep down, I really get it.

The fake tree wins on practicality: no watering, no dead needles everywhere, no midnight panic when one of the kids knocks it over half asleep. It’s reliable, reusable, and my wife’s favorite because it doesn’t turn our living room into a pine-scented ball of allergens.

But my heart? My heart’s still out there on the lot, shoes crunching in the dried needles on the ground, arguing over the perfect tree that’s just a little too tall, a little too wide, and absolutely worth every needle it’ll drop.

Maybe next year we’ll go real (I say that every year). Maybe we’ll bundle up, drive to a Christmas tree farm, saw it down ourselves, and drag it home like Ralphie’s old man.

Until then, the green pipe cleaner tree stands tall in our living room, lights twinkling, ornaments hung, looking… fine. Good, even.

But it doesn’t smell like Christmas.

And that’s okay. Because the real magic isn’t in the tree anyway.

It’s in the kids fighting over who gets to put the angel on top (that was my job this year). It’s in the popcorn strings and the ornaments we decorate with, year after year.

Fake tree or real, the tradition holds.

Though if anyone asks, I’m still Team Real all the way.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May your tree, whatever it’s made of (hopefully not green pipe cleaners), be surrounded by the people you love most.

And may it smell at least a little like pine.🎄