The holiday season starts off differently for every individual. For some, the first frost and drop in temperatures signal the arrival of the cooler season. Others take inspiration from music, ringing in the season with the sound of sleighbells. Shopping inspires many, fueling the season with late-night sales. Snow sports, school break, Thanksgiving, July, everyone has a catalyst for their own personal “Christmas Season.” For me, it is the arrival of my own personal winter forest.
Back when I was much younger, and the world was less complicated. I could always count on the arrival of the white truck, filled with the season’s beautiful specimens. They always arrive right around my birthday, like a little present—the scent of the holidays.
Every year, one by one, each tree is taken off the truck, cut, and stood. Standing straight as an arrow, the trees were lined up in the lot, spaced to create a little maze, as if they had always stood there. Some have holes, a little personality, others are trimmed to a flawless cone, dense with fragrant needles. Each tree was hand-picked from the field, in the hope that someone finds it to be perfect for their seasonal celebration.
From this same collection, our family tree was chosen. Annually, the six of us would run through the trees, pretending that we had any say in the matter. Weeding through every single tree, measuring, and looking at the spacing. We each had the opportunity to suggest our ideal tree; however, it was my mother who truly got the final say. She always picked out the prettiest tree.
After the tree was chosen, it was then sent off to my father’s workshop. There, he diligently lit every individual branch with white lights. Then, he carefully flocked each tip, creating a piece of art. The tree would then appear as if it had just started to snow, hard enough to collect a dusting on the tips of the branches.
While all this work was being done, the rest of the household prepared to welcome the tree into the house. The rule was that in order for the tree to come in, the whole house had to be cleaned. Only when all the furniture was rearranged, ensuring the optimal spot was cleared for tree viewing, was the masterpiece allowed to enter the house.
From there, everything about getting the tree into the house is strategic. Efficient, organized, pathway cleared, shoes off, tree in, straightened, cleaned. The closest thing that I could recognize as Christmas magic. No lights to untangle, nothing stressful, all managed and executed. As soon as the door was closed, the peaceful scent of Christmas would waft through the entire household.
The colors on the tree varied year to year. Always elegant, balanced, and picturesque. We would take turns handing ornaments to my mom, unboxing each one as she hung it on the tree. She made sure to pass along the critical eye to each one of her children, so our trees will always be balanced.
Now, the world is a little more complicated. But I still find myself following the same traditions I grew up with. My birthday has passed, and the trees are lining up in the driveway. I will be out there hunting, measuring, and pretending to let my husband look. When I find the best tree, it will go to the workshop. Every branch will be individually lit while I clean my house. Then, when it is good and ready, the tree will make its grand entrance. The scent of the tree will fill the room. The proper placement for each ornament will be determined. Finally, when that smell of peace blankets the whole house, then my holiday season can start.
Everything from that point on will be icing on the fruitcake. So if you are a shopper, singer, weather watcher, or summer starter, however your winter looks, I encourage you to take the time to find the perfect tree. Because, to put it simply, that is what Christmas smells like to me.
