How lovely are your branches by Maria Schamis Turner

This year I didn't buy myself a Christmas tree. Instead I bought one for a friend who had a hard year and two kids and not a lot of time to get her own. She appreciated the thought, but time and circumstances conspired against her and the tree stayed wrapped up on the front porch until it was almost time for the trek to her family's home out of town. The abandoned tree made us both feel guilty so I hauled it back home and up my snow-covered stairs and set it up in my living room. I threw some lights on it but stopped short of decorations. I was leaving town as well and there would already be a tree where I was going. I may have rescued the tree but I wasn't giving it a proper home.My family has a spotty history of Christmas trees. There must have been a few when I was a child because I grew up with the common nostalgia for the deep, outdoorsy smell, and even for the trail of needles that follow the tree into the house. But I don’t remember any tree-buying rituals, and my bookish father was not the sort to wield a saw and cut one down. My father disliked Christmas accoutrements—he associated trees and decorations with commercialism and forced jollity—and when my sister and I were old enough to face the disappointment, Christmas trees became a thing of the past. My mother cut sprigs of holly from the bush in the back yard, and there might have been a few lights, but most years the tree was conspicuous in its absence.I accepted this state of affairs until the early stirrings of teenage rebellion prompted me to walk to a Christmas tree lot a few blocks away and buy one with my allowance. My friend Sarah helped me carry it back to my house where it was received with tolerant amusement.As I grew older, my rebellion manifested itself in different ways—I started smoking, dyeing my hair, and wearing various shades of black. But I wasn’t done with acts of yuletide defiance. I must have complained about the lack of seasonal cheer to a couple of my tougher and more foolhardy friends, because one December morning, after coming home from a late-night party, I found one very large and very stolen Christmas tree in the back alley behind my house. Jessie’s family had two, I told my mother, after working out my statement with another friend who understood the difficulties of explaining the sudden appearance of a six-foot Douglas fir to those who don’t believe in miracles. My mother (my parents were separated by then) seemed to believe me, as doubtful as the story seemed, and every time I looked at the tree I felt guilt mixed with teenage pride.Having a tree did not solve other Christmas issues. As the younger sibling I was perpetually dissatisfied with my presents, always believing what my sister received was better. Whatever she had, I wanted too. My parents’ divorce brought other challenges. Who would win the tug of war for Christmas dinner? My parents were not above using my sister and me as ammunition in their disputes, and the holidays became an annual point of contention. Our once small Christmases became smaller still, from four of us around the dinner table to three, until there were new, though not always welcome additions to the family: my father’s girlfriend, single friends of my mother’s, or, on occasion, one of my friends trying to escape an even less comfortable situation.When I left home I finally understood why my father disliked Christmas. I understood because I had inherited his outlook – Christmas was a suspect time of year for those of us with small, divided families. My list of favorite Christmases could be counted on one hand: the time a boyfriend and I hosted dinner for my mother, my sister, and three geographically orphaned friends; watching DVDs and drinking twelve-year-old scotch with my father, both of us more relaxed that year for no obvious reason; a tropical Christmas with my Argentine relatives, sitting by the pool, eating suckling pig that had been slow cooked on a wood-burning barbecue. The less successful celebrations blend together in a blur of holiday fatigue and tense dinners, although I cannot forget the roast beef that my father and I almost lost due to an exploding Pyrex pan, our attempt at cooking a goose (just for the two of us) in a small, convection oven, or the epic fight with my sister that started with an argument over trifle.My sister and I had long stopped spending Christmases together having eventually solved the “mother or father?” problem by splitting up. You take Mum and I’ll take Dad, became our standard holiday exchange. These decisions were further exacerbated by geography; we had both left our hometown of Vancouver and now a family Christmas involved expensive travel. More than once I found myself thinking that I could go to Europe for the price of my ticket home. It only occurred to us after my sister had started her own family that the two of us were still paying the price for my parent’s decision so many years ago.My sister, determined to give her daughter what she didn’t have, insists on a tree, even at my father’s house. (She tested the waters by making him buy one when she was pregnant, as practice for the years to come.) I don't have children of my own but most years I do have a tree. They're not stolen and I stopped carrying them home once I realized I could get them delivered from Jean-Talon market, but I still feel a tiny spark of rebellion when I plug in the lights.I only had my tree for 24 hours this year—it found a better home at the house of another friend whose tree had started molting far too early—but for me it was enough. Given my history with Christmas trees, it made sense to pass the tree on as needed. It's not that I didn't want the tree, but I've come to realize it's the thought that counts.