From Sybil Bruncheon's (Not So) Merry Memoirs:
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I wish there was a less grim aftermath for Christmas.... I always dread this part of the celebrations. When the trees first start appearing at the street-corner lots lit by strings of bare light bulbs draped mock-gayly between street lamps and parking signs. Salesmen/tree choppers manning their vans and coffee thermoses through the night while their trees of all sizes and varieties lean against each other, stacked and bound with twine til they're examined, and either chosen or rejected for purchase. Little spruces perhaps only a year or two old resting against grand firs of maybe 30 years.... all of them cut down for the ultimate sin; being beautiful.
I know "they're grown for harvesting"..... I know "they're recycled" or "used for mulching".... but I have always, always been haunted by the Hans Christian Andersen story of "The Fir-Tree"... and the end of the story. My parents gayly read the fairy tale to me on Christmas eve, and then that last paragraph... I remember that I was convulsed (literally!), and inconsolable... and they were stunned at my reaction. They never looked at me the same way again... because I was no longer a simple child... with a child's simple sensibilities.
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