Joyride III

Standing at the Home Depot with my wife Kris, I was hiding my disappointment. I knew it was going to be different from now on. I was giving away a piece of my childhood.    
We were buying an artificial Christmas tree, for the first time in my life. Fifty-one years with 51 different trees, each unique in their own way. 
“Hey look at that,” Kris said. “The lights are already on the tree.” I nodded blankly. 
I thought back to all those trees from Cape May Christmases past. The year we were so broke we couldn’t afford a tree. But one just showed up on our porch on Jefferson Street from some secret Santa.
It was the only tree that ever made me cry. I formed a permanent bond with that pine.  And maybe on some level, I had been honoring it ever since.
The first Christmas I spent with Kris, before we were even married, we cut down our own tree. We lived in rural Pennsylvania at the time, and we didn’t cut it down very well.
We paid a local tree farmer and roamed his grounds looking for the perfect tree. We used a hacksaw to try and cut it down. But it didn’t work very well. 
So we just leaned on the tree until it fell over.
We tossed it over the farm’s white fence and retrieved it later with Kris’ car.  It was less than perfect—but it made for a perfect Christmas. It was our first tree together, and it seemed to be standing proudly behind us when we took our first Christmas picture together.
Now with four kids, our tradition is a little different. We go to the Westmont Volunteer Fire Department, a half mile from our home in Collingswood. They have an annual tree sale there.
It’s like a scene right out of “A Christmas Story.” After you pick out your tree, local firefighters tie it to your car with twine.
While we’re waiting, we head up the clunky stairs of the firehouse and into a small room with one of those electric heaters. There’s a model train display there that belongs to one of the firemen. Watching the trains, we grab one of those miniature candy canes from a little basket. 
But not this year—because our artificial tree is now the centerpiece of our Christmas season. It looks remarkably real. With a few pine needles scattered on our wooden floor—you would hardly know the difference.
The tree change is my fault. Every year the real tree would overwhelm my allergies. 
It was even worse when I was a kid. I was so sickly, and the tree would make it worse every year. When you are allergic to the outdoors, bringing them inside every December makes you suffer.
But I never blamed the trees. I loved those trees, and I felt like they loved me back.  Each one so different. Each one connected to a different set of memories.
My four kids (Kameron, Josh, Madeline, and Elijah) were definitely disappointed to see the artificial tree. “But we’ve always had a real tree,” said my 11-year-old daughter Madeline. “I know but my allergies can’t handle it anymore,” I explained.
But as we began to decorate the tree, it seemed to change. There was the ornament that had the little photo of our late-dog, Max, who always seems to be smiling at us from heaven. And the Victorian Santas that came from my childhood house on Jefferson Street.
Decorating the tree began to transform it. As it became adorned with dozens of sentimental ornaments—it started to take on a different personality. It seemed to be speaking to me.
“Merry Christmas,” it seemed to be saying. “I’m trying,” I replied.   
Forrest is an associate professor of communication at Atlantic Cape Community College.  His late mother Libby Demp Forrest Moore wrote the Joyride column for this newspaper for 20 years.