We got a fake tree on Saturday. It looks just as good as an original, except it doesn’t have that je en sais quoi, which is French for “needles in the rug six months later.” Doesn’t have that piny good smell, but real trees lose their bouquet almost immediately. Mainly because they are dead. Every year we put a tree in water, and every year the water gets undrunk. And we think it’s cute when kids put out cookies for Santa: same childlike belief. The tree may take a sip at first, but eventually it realizes that there’s no point prolonging this. Whatever lies the woodsman told the tree – oh, you’re going to a better place with even better roots – it has to realize that this nightmare will only end in death. You can say we treat the trees well in their last days, dressing them up and making them feel special, but those scarified on Mayan altars got a bath and some perfume, too.
The new tree has joints and hinges; it’s wired like – well, like a Christmas tree, with the lights woven into the very essence of the tree itself. I expect it will pay for itself in three years. Best of all: no fears it will set the house ablaze. If this tree gets set on fire, it will just melt.
That’s the other amusing thing about real trees: they can burn your house down, even though they’re the only piece of wood in the house sitting in a pail of water.
