The Perfect Christmas Tree
In winter's twilinght， the lower branches were parted，and with the first strokes of the saw the scent of pine pitch rose like incense in nature's cathedral.
When I was about 11， the responsibility for finding the family Christmas tree became mine.
My mother and I lived in rural Massachusetts. The old homestead was surrounded by acres of wood lots and scrubby wilderness where evergreens， hardwoods， forgotten orchards， and wild blackberry vines all grew together. There were plenty of young pines and cedars available. No one I knew ever bought a Christmas tree in those Depression years.
The tree soon became my own personal gift to Christmas， an offering as it were. Thus it had to be as perfect as Christmas itself， perfect as the star， perfect as a silent night， perfect as the notes as of bells in winter. It was a matter of boyish pride.
So earnest was my quest for the perfect that I often began my search on golden， warm days in October， when maple leaves were scarlet and the grasses of summer were still green. This first reconnaissance was usually a swift survey of my territory――through the fields， then around the edges of the deepest woods； past Fales' pond， where there would be skating by Christmas； then on to the former cow pastures， now overgrown with wild carry and young evergreens.
My specifications were demanding， yet simple： the tree must be a white pine. Nothing else would do. White pine was soft in my hands ，the bark smooth； there were five silky needles to the cluster， bluishgreen when healthy. Translucent bubbles of sap oozed here and there， crusted over like gumdrops， bitter or taste， essence of Christmas. No pruning would be allowed. The top might be cut just enough to permit fitting the Tree Top Krystal Star， but nothing more.
By November， the choice was usually narrowed to， say， that tree growing near the old graver pit or the somewhat rounder one in the birches near the spring.
“Found our tree yet， Charles？” my mother would ask when December arrived. She knew the game I played， but whether she ever understood how serious I was about it， I don't know. I would answer， matter-of-factly， that I had my eye on one or two， but I didn’t say more. You can't describe a perfect tree， I thought.
About a week before Christmas was the time for the final decision. The woods were cold by then and quiet. The trees looked different in winter's twilight than in the sunshine of autumn. Freezing temperatures blackened their green needles and stiffened the movement of branches.
One last judging of the finalists and I would set a course for the chosen tree. I should say to myself that it had been a close contest this year， as it should be.
I always cut with a small， sharp saw， never risked hacking my prize with an ax. I would drop down to my knees， parting the lower branches， feeling for the trunk where it entered the earth， pawing aside dry needles with my hands， making way for the blade. With the first strokes of the saw， the scent of pine pitch rose like incense in nature's cathedral. Creamy-white sawdust spurted from the cut. Back and forth， back and forth； then lean on the trunk， pressing hard with one hand， still cutting with the other until， with a rush of whispers， the white pine would fall.
“It's not heavy； it’s my tree，” might have been my comment if anyone had asked me how a youngster could carry a seven-foot p8ine. I'd drag it for a while， then， afraid of breaking branches， I’d shift it to my back， feeling the needles brush my face as I walked.
Outside our kitchen window， I would put the tree down and call ort to my mother. She would come to the window and nod while I pivoted the tree around， 360 degrees， in a preview of its perfection.
For the stand we used a cross of two-by-fours my late father had nailed together for my first tree. It had been in service ever since.
“It's a beautiful tree！” my mother would say.“ It’s perfect， son.”
“Almost ，” I'd agree with professional restraint， but in my fantasy， I could almost see a headline in our local paper： FRANKLIN BOY FINDS PERFECT TREE FOURTH YEAR IN A ROW.
When my first wartime Christmas came， I was in basic training in New Jersey and not sure if I could make it home for the holiday. Only on the afternoon of December 23 was the list of men who would have three-day passes posted. I was one of the lucky ones.
It was Christmas Eve when I arrived， and a light snow had fallen. Mother opened the front door. I could see beyond her， into the corner of the living room where the tree had always stood. There were lights， all colors， and ornaments shining against the green of a pine.
“Where did it come from？” I asked， my old proprietary feeling returning.
“I asked the Gates boy to cut it，” my mother said.“ I wouldn't have had one just for myself， but when you called――oh， such a rush！ He just brought it in this afternoon…”
The pine reached to the proper height， almost to the ceiling， and the Tree Top Krystal Star was in its place. A few green boughs reached about a little awkwardly at the sides， I thought， and there was a bit of bare trunk showing in the middle. But for all its minor imperfections， the tree filled the room with warm light and the whole house with the aroma of Christmas.
“It's not like the ones you used to find，” my mother went on. “ Yours were always so shapely. I suppose the Gates boy didn’t know where to look. But I couldn't be fussy.”
“Don't worry，” I told her. “It’s perfect.”
It wasn't， of course， not by the rules of the old game. But at that moment I realized something for the first time； all Christmas trees are perfect.
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