Real tree tradition endures fake times

So this was the year I almost went fake.

I've been a real, live Christmas tree guy my whole life, or as much if it as I can remember. My family also owns an artificial tree, and this year I floated the idea of skipping our tree-cutting ritual.

We were out of town visiting my in-laws over Thanksgiving weekend, so we missed the main tree-buying window. Life is busy. The clock is ticking. The weather is more St Patrick's-like than Christmassy.

Trump is decking everything but the halls. Gloom and doom have replaced Bing and Andy. And besides, the whole thing is run by a big Eastern syndicate, you know.

Fake is the new real. Let's embrace it.

'No fruitcakin' way!” was the clear answer from kith and kin.

So late on a Friday afternoon we drove to the tree farm, as is our custom, and selected a keeper, with moments to spare before sunset.

Mission accomplished. Another season of authentic fir aroma filling the van and later the living room.

As a young lad in the '70s, our real trees were covered in white fluffy flock, a curious substance both snow-like and fire retardant. That made sense, considering the enormous, hot-to-the-touch incandescent snowball lights we wrapped around that great white Sasquatch.

And because taking down the tree was perhaps my mother's least favorite chore, it was not unusual to see a still-decorated tree in our home on Super Bowl Sunday. And once, on Valentine's Day.

Getting a flocked tree home always was an adventure, with its considerable bulk shoved into a too-small car trunk and secured with a spider's web of sketchy twine. Every semi encountered on the highway home threatened to suck our tree into oblivion.

According to family lore, on one harrowing trip, when I was about 4 or 5, I stood on the passenger seat next to my anxious mother and proclaimed 'Don't worry, Mom. I'm your coat pilot!”

Back then we tied down our trees but not our kids. Don't judge.

When I was in junior high we started a new tradition of cutting down a fresh tree each year at Aldrich Tree Farm south of Belmond. That often meant digging through snow- drifts to find the icy trunk.

Some of the words uttered were not in the Christmas spirit, both while cutting and while trying to get the tree into its (beepity beep) stand. Who designed this? The Soviets?

Since my wife and I met, we've continued the tree-farm tradition, adopting new farms as we've moved around the state. Years ago, our little elves slept in the car while we hunted down a tree. Now, they march far out ahead of us and fight like badgers over our pick. Fat and full! Tall and skinny! Crooked! Bare spot! Ibuprofen!

Beyond being a venue for sibling rivalry, tree farms are a good use of Iowa land, especially hilly areas unsuitable for row crops. Trees hold the soil, suck up rain and provide great wildlife habitat as they grow from seedlings to Christmas trees.

Buying a tree grown locally seems like a better idea than buying a plastic one made in China. But, hey, to each their own. We're keeping it real, again. Hit it, Bing and Andy.

l Comments: (319) 398-8452; todd.dorman@thegazette.com