They make me sad, all those once magnificent Christmas trees. The real ones, now neglected and naked by the side of the road. I wonder what they were like when they were “before,” when they graced a hillside in spring, or accompanied their deciduous neighbors during the vibrant blazing of fall.
When I was a child I begged for a “real” tree every Christmas time. I loved the smell of pine and the way it felt like I had my own forest in the living room. I loved that I had to crawl under the branches to make sure there was enough water in the tree stand. I loved how the needles fell off, covering the carpet under the tree. My parents did not love these things.
Photo by Matthew Henry from Burst
We have an artificial tree now. I’m not a vegetarian (anymore), but there’s some of the same principle for me with Christmas trees. I almost feel pain when I think of them being cut down and schlepped off to some Christmas tree lot where they are judged and either chosen or rejected. And I feel even worse when I drive down the street and in front of many homes is a discarded, once naturally glorious evergreen tree.
madmuser 