The Great Christmas-Tree Hunt
The downside of the yearly ritual when living in the city.
As I’ve gotten older, the hunt for a Christmas tree agitates harder. It gnaws in my head, a task demanding action. This fretting may sound odd to anyone who doesn’t live in an urban area and owns an automobile, specifically an SUV, but I do live in an urban area and I don’t own a car. Fortunately, getting a seven-foot tree into one’s apartment is an exercise we practice but once a year. The worrying starts around the time when the Thanksgiving leftovers need to be thrown out, when the homemade cranberry sauce turns, and gray moldy spots appear on top. Or when that Mariah Carey song begins to play non-stop.
Now, you might wonder, why does a Christmas tree need to be seven feet tall, and why, I should add, does it need to be a Douglas fir. It doesn’t, but one of my sacred duties is to keep the family home in harmony. My wife is typically not picky or choosy — well, except when picking a mate — but a dinky Charlie Brown tree is just one of those things she won’t settle for. Perhaps it’s because we happen to live in a pre-war apartment with tall ceilings, and a four- or five-footer would seem like another jilted ficus tree found near the windows of many city dwellers, shunned and sparse, with dust covered leaves.
In the thirty plus years of hunting for a Christmas tree, there have been years when everything falls into place. None were easier than when we lived near where the Boy Scouts ran their tree stand on our corner in front of a bank. The only catch was to keep an eye for them, and not miss the one weekend they were there. Their prices were reasonable, and the proceeds went to fund their wholesome activities. The trees were fresh, and the boys helped carry the tree to our building. We lived so close to the stand that a parent chaperone wasn’t even necessary.
Other years, we got lucky. We were given a tree with a catch. We had to carry it twenty blocks or so from my wife’s father’s building. A business client sent him a tree every December, which he didn’t want. He had cats. We did too, but we didn’t mind our cats enjoying the sappy water. We did mind the climbing, so I added dumbbells to secure the base. We found out quickly that cabbies didn’t like stuffing a large tree into their taxi. Fortunately, the free-tree years came when we were younger, my wife and I, and we could handle the exercise. Some years it was fun walking up Third or Lexington with a massive tree. Being on the receiving end of jolly comments, ‘nice tree’ or ‘Merry Christmas,’ on the way home got us into the holiday spirit. Some years when it was bitter cold, we didn’t find much spirit. When it was bitter and gusty, we had to be careful the spirit didn’t fly off with the tree.
One year, around the time my kids were in middle school, my wife’s friend invited her and the kids to come up to the country — way out in Westchester — to cut down a tree. I was glad my kids got a chance to use a saw for the first time, and an appreciation for why they never wanted to do farm work when there is frost on the ground. They came back with a tree tied to the roof of the rental. When I came home from work, the tree was ready to be impaled on the tree stand. Easy-peasy.
I discovered the Urban Garden Center in Harlem, tucked under the Metro North tracks, a few years ago. Their prices were reasonable, and with a little haggling, I could get the seven footer for the price of a five footer, timing my final offer when the train went by overhead. The rumble made the attendant susceptible to my proposal. I think that was the trick. Crisp Jacksons in my wallet, rather than a credit card, also seemed to help.
Whole Foods had disrupted the tree market in recent years. No haggling. Every tree is the same price. (This year it was $70, a bargain.) Unfortunately, it seems everyone in the city has discovered this stand, too, and they sell out the first week of December. I walked by only to find the empty palettes where the trees had been penned in. A small selection of two- and three-foot trees remained, perfect for those two-hundred square foot studio apartments renting for three-thousand dollars a month. My daughter, a close observer of human activity, claims that Christmas comes earlier now, especially after the pandemic. Either people no longer bother looking at their calendars, or they don’t care about bone dry needles by Christmas Eve. My theory is that pumpkin spice has an unknown side effect that accelerates the holiday spirit. It does something to those whose FOMO intuition is strong, prompting a rush to buy more stuff, including Christmas trees. Whole Foods was out.
To temper my growing anxiety, I went over my remaining options. The Boy Scouts were out. We don’t live near their corner anymore, and I’m pretty sure their tree stand is no longer. A trip to Westchester was out. My wife’s friend moved to Florida, away from the New England winters, embracing Christmas palm trees.
A trip to Harlem was becoming more likely, until I checked the Urban Garden Center website. Their Christmas tree page, full of pictures of perfect models posing in lush fields, had been edited in red — SOLD OUT, for all but their largest trees. I could still get the 14’ -16’ trees for $825. Even if I could share the tree with our upstairs neighbor, the price was objectionable.
After the website surprise, I was getting a bit desperate. I started making excuses to walk around the neighborhood, with the intent to furtively price the pop-up tree stands. These street pop-ups are my last resort. The haggling is tougher because they start at stratospheric prices. Even after a successful haggling, I’m still paying close to three times the Whole Foods’ price. I kept from my wife that I was down to this loathed option. I didn’t need her to worry too, which would mean I would experience both the gnawing and the nagging.
I’m a believer in having a plan B, so I started plotting ways to convince my wife that we should forgo a tree this year. Who needs one? The mess it makes in the living room. The disruption of moving furniture around. My back isn’t that sturdy anymore. Now, a nice simple Nativity scene would be an easy alternative, I assured myself. We need not reach for a formidable manger like those of my childhood when we spent days hunting for moss. And, we would finally make use of all those plastic figurines we keep in the basement, but rarely use. It would also remind us of a Bethlehem different from today’s.
Selecting the appropriate pop-up tree stand is in two parts. Pricing is a major factor, but I also consider Mr. Lumberjack — big beards, big boots, and Carhartt wear, although some are Ms. Lumberjacks, without the beards, of course. Are they friendly or curmudgeonly? I give them plenty of latitude knowing they’re out of their element 24 hours a day with nowhere to hide from the weather, except their elfin houses on the sidewalk. Yes, attitude matters a lot. I will walk a few extra blocks, spending the same amount with a nicer Mr. Lumberjack, reinforcing, in a small way, that a positive outlook helps everyone.
I was still evaluating the nearby pop-ups — Plan A — and perfecting my argument for a manger — Plan B — when I got lucky on December 13th of all days. My daughter’s boyfriend, a firefighter EMT, had heard me grumble about the tree situation. He called me late that evening, well after 22 hundred — their speak — to tell me he could bring a tree over in their ambulance. He had gone off duty, and he could drop it off on their way back to the station. He thought that his uniform might help convince Mr. Lumberjack to give him a break. It did, he got fifty percent off. A short time later, he was in front of my building, lights flashing, scaring my doorman, to drop off a perfect seven-foot Douglas fir, properly cared for on the stretcher.
Well after 23 hundred, I impaled the tree on the stand, added hot water to melt the sap, put weights on the base in case the cat was feeling acrobatic, and went to bed. For the first time in days, I slept peacefully without the disquieting Christmas-tree FOMO disturbing my dreams.
¡Merry Christmas!
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