Originally published at National Catholic Register
Memories of Christmas trees parade through my mind during Advent. I grew up in Miami, where the yearly hunt for a perfect tree had the whole family attired in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. We climbed into my father’s spacious Oldsmobile with fancy fins and headed to the tree lot.
Once there, my sister and I made a game of playing hide-and-seek among the trees, while my father launched into the serious business of finding a tree and getting a good deal. Once he located a candidate, he began bargaining with the tree guy, who was energetically chewing on the end of a cigar.
My father knew better than to praise the tree and shot a warning glance at my sister and myself, lest we get too enthusiastic about its appearance. He frowned as he mentioned a branch that was drooping and needles that shook off the tree like fleas when he moved it.
The tree guy evidently wanted to sell trees as quickly as possible, since the humid weather in Miami could wreak havoc on his wares. A price was agreed upon, and my father handed over the cash.
Back at home, there were definite alterations
