Illustration by Rania Abdallah
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My family never went to a Christmas tree farm when I was younger. We grew our trees. The difference was that we didn’t have to wait a decade before we had one – our trees grew overnight.
Every year at the end of November, we chose one night to plant the pine cone – but first we had to find just the right one. My mom stopped us long enough to put on our coats and boots, and my two siblings and I would run to the playground with the evergreen trees. The perfect pine cone couldn’t be too tall, too short, too broken or too high in the tree. When we found one, Dad lifted the lucky sibling high enough to pluck it off the branch. Then we ran home, cradling the ordinary object that would soon become magical.
At home, we sat around the dirt pot and took turns digging a hole for the pine cone. My older sister made sure to go first and when she saw that the hole wasn’t quite good enough after my brother and I had our turn, she fixed it. One of us would place the pine cone inside the hole, push the dirt overtop and gently pat it down.
Now it was time for the most important step. Mom would get out a ceramic shaker painted with a gold snowflake. She told us this shaker held the most valuable thing on the planet: Christmas magic. I never questioned how my family managed to have the Christmas magic in our possession. Instead, I was grateful that I was the only kid in my school who had it. Taking turns, we sprinkled tiny gold flakes of Christmas magic over the pine cone. It was always the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Dad always warned us not to sprinkle too much or the tree would grow so tall it would break the roof.
Still surrounding the pot, my family held hands. Dad would open the prayer, asking God to help the tree grow big and strong, but not through the roof. Then my Mom would rush us off to bed. Of course, we didn’t want to leave the tree, but the other rule about Christmas magic was that the tree never grew when someone was looking. With toothpaste dripping down our chins, we would run back down the stairs to find that the tree had already grown. A little sprout was sticking out of the dirt, right where the pinecone was planted! We ran up and down the stairs a few more times, disrupting the bedtime routine and freaking out when the tree grew higher. Lying in bed, the excitement was unbearable, but we would just have to wait.
A visit to the mall with mom is just as important as our fancy vacations
One year, I remember waking and standing at the top of the staircase looking down into the dark family room. Small, rainbow dots of light scattered across the carpet. Creeping slowly down the stairs, I was greeted with a six-foot-tall tree decked out in multicoloured lights. Pure magic! At school that day I told anyone who would listen about my tree, feeling pride when my story caused them to stare at me in disbelief.
I also remember the day when I found out that the “Christmas magic” was just glitter. My little brother wasn’t home, so I asked my parents and they told me. (I also learned that my older sister kept that big of a secret from me for two years.) That Christmas, I was in charge of sticking small tree branches in the pot every time my little brother went upstairs to brush his teeth.
Eight years later, I still miss the excitement that came with my childhood ignorance but I enjoy our current tree tradition, too. At the Christmas tree farm, we get our cups of free apple cider and we spend an hour or so walking through the rows. While everyone argues for a different tree, Dad complains that all the good ones are getting cut down while we wait. When we do find our tree, Dad saws it down, and my brother begs to drag it to the car. He lasts about two minutes, and then I take over.
When we get the tree home it goes into the garage. Then, we go pine cone hunting. Even though none of us believe the magic glitter story any more, I still go to bed after planting the pine cone with excitement and look forward to being greeted by that sparkly tree the next morning.
Christmas isn’t special because of the traditions, but the people you do them with. I loved running to the park with my siblings to get the pinecones and holding hands while we prayed over our tree. Now, I love my family’s drive home from the tree farm and decorating the tree together. Even though I get distracted by the lights, presents and all the magic, at Christmas nothing else matters except being with the people I love.
Autumn Wartman lives in Ridgeway, Ont.