How can the same holiday tradition be both the snag in my season and the joy that steadies my heart—its memories clinging like ornaments to a well-worn branch?

Growing up in a Jewish family in the 50s and 60s, God forbid a Christmas tree ever crossed the threshold. For a few years, though, our living room sported a Hanukkah bush—which, as I recall, looked just like a Christmas tree.

Or close enough in this kid’s eyes. I had Christmas tree envy.

Hanukkah lasts for eight days—each one celebrated with the lighting of another candle on the menorah and the opening of a gift. These lights commemorate the miracle of a small amount of oil that burned for eight days until more oil could be found and placed in the rededicated Temple.

The Temple had been desecrated under the Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes during the Maccabean revolt, around 164 BC. Tradition says Judah Maccabee led the rededication, and that only a single flask of consecrated oil was found—enough for one day but miraculously lasting eight.

The Christmas tree in the new Mizrahi household evolved in phases through the years, much like its occupants. After Karen and I started our own family, we did like most folks before the 25th of December. We packed up the kids in the Ford Aerostar and headed to the local lot to pick out the best remaining specimen.

Of course, by the time we arrived ten minutes later, the kids were screaming at each other, the cars were lined up looking for a parking spot, and ten people were ahead of us looking for one of the high school students working as helpers during the winter break.

At least I got some assistance tying the tree to the roof of the van.

Nine times out of ten, I struggled mightily trying to get the tree centered in the stand.

“No…it’s leaning to the right.” – Karen

“How about now?” – Mike (breathing heavily)

“Oops. Too far to the left.” – Karen

“Bah…humbug! That’ll have to do!”

You get the idea, right. You’ve been through the drill too.

I loved it when they started attaching those wooden stands to the bottom of the trees. But the tree started turning yellow about a week later. I’d lay in bed picturing our house going up in flames! Took me a while to figure out I could remove the wooden slats and put the tree back in the water stand.

Karen was used to all this rigmarole and insisted on the presence of Santa Claus in our house along the way—to boot. Santa decorations, cookies and milk, and his letter of thanks to the kids left at the fireplace. I, the Jew who came to faith in my late-20s, was new to practicing Christmas traditions, and wondered where Jesus was in all this. It took me some time to get with the program.

Transition with me to Phase 2 of our tree shopping escapades—where we made like lumberjacks to a Christmas tree farm and started chopping down our own tree. The kids were a little older, and the ride to our destination was more like 45 minutes, one way. The arguments centered around, again, finding the perfect tree.

We left it to the kids to choose while we sipped some hot chocolate.

One time we got the tree back to the house. I carried it to the living room and set it in the stand, only to discover a significant curvature in the trunk, hidden by the thick branches. An hour later, drenched in sweat, trying to achieve the impossible—I threw in the towel, drove back to the lot by myself, and picked out another tree.

Driving time? Forty-five minutes x four and throw in an extra hour of LA traffic. Well…at least we got some precious shots of our little lumberjacks sawing down their tree. The second attempt was better, but still leaned a bit too far to the left.

(BTW, our tree this year—see below—is awesome, and she loves it.)

A white artificial Christmas tree decorated with lights and ornaments stands on a table between two gray armchairs, with wrapped gifts underneath and colorful string lights visible outside the window.

I’ll admit—sometimes I do miss a fresh Christmas tree that fills the living room with the clean, resin-sweet scent of pine, a fragrance that feels both crisp and comforting at once.

And here’s the irony. If I’m sounding a bit like the Grinch, rest assured—I would trade the rest of my days if I could go back and relive those times.

Sure, we have all the pictures, and they’re great. But they can’t capture the laughter, the shaking of presents under the tree for days, the anticipation of that special morning when they’d both run up the stairs and throw themselves on top of our sleeping bodies. Usually around 5 a.m.

“Get up…get up! It’s Christmas!”

For the record—and because I still love this stuff—the Christmas tree world hasn’t slowed down…

The total number of trees sold annually seems fairly stable, the market value is expected to grow, and growers anticipate solid demand. But within that, real tree sales aren’t booming; instead, artificial trees continue to dominate. Must be all of us Baby Boomers.

Merry Christmas.

Happy tree hunting!

Phase 3? Yep…a fake tree. That didn’t go over too well at first, but the kids soon transitioned to college life, and it was just Karen and me. It took some getting used to for her, but I was sold.