To which I always reply, "Me too. I'll mix a batch of myspecial grain alcohol eggnog martinis, and we'll watch my videocollection of every sitcom episode with a `Christmas Carol' storyline, from `The Jeffersons' to `Saved by the Bell.' I've got dozensof 'em!"
Amazingly, that's never what they have in mind."Let's not do that, Rich," they say. "Let's really get into thespirit of the season by going out to one of those tree farms inAntioch or Woodstock or someplace and chopping down our very ownChristmas tree!"Insert big Charlie Brown sigh here.Label me a Scrooge if you will, but I have no interest inpulling a Clark Griswold and venturing deep into theoften-unincorporated unknown, bow saw in hand, in search of aChristmas tree.It just seems so . . . unnecessary. Stupid, even. Nobody eversays, "Let's go out to a turkey farm and assassinate our own birdthis Thanksgiving," so why do so many people feel compelled to felltheir own trees come Yule time?Now, I realize this position is going to result in a deluge ofmail in volumes not seen since they dumped all those sacks of"letters to Santy Claus" on the judge's desk in the original "Miracleon 34th Street." (Yes, that's Jack Albertson of "Chico and the Man"fame playing the postal worker who decides to forward all thoseletters to the Kris Kringle trial.)The letters will go something like this:"Bah humbug on you, Roeper! Obviously, you've never had theheartwarming experience of spending a day with family and friends,chopping down your own tree. You'll never understand the realmeaning of Christmas, you bum! Here's hoping you get run over by aone-horse open sleigh!"But I did participate in a Christmas tree retrieval missiononce, back in the 1980s. Why, I remember it as if it were 12 yearsago . . .(Cue music here: Springsteen's "Santa Claus Is Coming toTown.")We decided we'd take a road trip to exotic Wisconsin, where thetrees were said to be as tall as . . . well, trees. After theseemingly endless drive, we arrived at the farm, which had a cutesysign that said something like, "Welcome to Good St. Nick's TannenbaumWonderland - Hot Cider Available!"It was a cold, windy day. Mud was everywhere. Still, I wasdetermined to get into the spirit of things, so I pulled out my newlypurchased ax and did my best Nicholson impersonation from "TheShining." Heeeeere's Johnny!Only one problem. Axes weren't allowed - nor would they let meuse my official souvenir "Scarface" chainsaw. Apparently these farmshave a thing about "safety" and "tradition." You have to use a saw.As our Sherpa guide led us to the forest, one member of ourgroup - an annoying fellow year-round, but particularly so during theholidays - told us he'd been doing some research on the subject ofChristmas trees."Bet you didn't know there were so many different types ofso-called Christmas trees," he told us. "There's Scotch pine, whitepine, balsam fir, Canaan fir, Concolor fir, Douglas fir, Fraser fir,Norway spruce, Colorado blue spruce, white spruce, Serbian spruce . .."We threw him from our wagon. Haven't heard from him since.Eventually, we found a tree that was only slightly lopsided, andwe went about the tedious process of felling it with our rented bowsaw. There was a strict embargo on the word "timber," so we allshouted, "Take that, Ted Danson!" as yet another tree fell victim tocrass commercialism.After we purchased some netting and twine, we bundled the treeto my friend's Volvo and held our breath for the long drive back,hoping the December winds wouldn't lift the thing from our vehicleand send it flying through the air like a guided pine missile.Once the tree was lugged up the stairs to my friend's place,forced into its stand and festooned with the usual lights andtrimmings, we all stood back and waited to feel that extra wave ofsatisfaction that comes from knowing you've done something thetraditional way, the hard way.We're still waiting to feel that wave of extra satisfaction.E-mail: rroeper@suntimes.com
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