People often ask me where I get ideas for this Substack. The simple answer is everywhere, even a Christmas tree lot on a cold night in December.
When my brother and I were kids, each year we would make the annual trip with our dad to pick out the family Christmas tree. But when we left for college, he was left to make the selection without us. That is until recently when we decided the old man needed some help.
Now, one might conclude that we did so because at 78 and a shade under 5’4, wrestling a nine-foot tree off the car roof had become a nearly-impossible task. While true, our rationale ran deeper — we thought he needed “air cover.”
Air cover?
Yes, air cover.
In short, we needed to witness his selection process so that we could defend him.
See, in what had become a Christmas ritual in the Lamade house, every year for as long as I can remember, my dad would go out, buy a tree, put it up on the stand, and my mom would immediately spot the flaws. Hole on one side. Dead patch in the middle. Leaning hard to the left. An obvious flat top. You name it, we’ve had it.
For years my brother and I would go into full blown “PR mode” after the tree went up, saying things like:
“The tree will look nice once it drops.”
“Dad did his best.”
“It’s Christmas — give him a break.”
But candidly, we kept asking ourselves the same question, how does this keep happening?!?!
I mean, my mom wasn’t wrong. These trees nearly always had something wrong with them.
That is, until my brother and I finally saw him in action on the lot last year. Like the Hardy Boys, we solved our childhood mystery almost instantaneously.
When we arrived at the lot, the two of us prepared to fan out to look for a tree. The goal was simple – find a nine-footer with no dead branches, not too big…not too small, and certainly no flat tops.
Then it happened. Something the two of us had not prepared for. It was akin to the moment as a kid when you find out the whole secret behind Santa.
So, what was it?
Practically the minute we walked onto the lot, my dad pointed to the first nine-footer he saw and said – “We’ll take that one.”
Huh? Was this a joke??
Then it all made sense. This is how he had managed to bring home an imperfect tree year-after-year. He didn’t search. He didn’t compare. He didn’t think about how a tree would look after it “dropped.” He simply saw one that looked good enough and bought it.
Witnessing what had just happened, the two of us turned to him and said,
“What are you doing? You cannot be serious!?!?”
He then looked at us like we were the crazy ones and said,
“What do you mean ‘am I serious’? Of course I am serious. Your mother will find something wrong with any tree I bring home, so why spend an hour in the freezing cold looking for one?”
Here’s the thing. He wasn’t wrong. But there was more to it.
My dad has always been drawn to the oddball. The misfit. The underdog. The one with “character.” Deep down, I think he liked “rescuing” the ugly tree from the lot. I even think he got a kick out of imagining the moment Mom would see it and deliver the annual critique. The whole thing amused him.
And truthfully, we have laughed about our trees every year. The one with the massive hole. Ole Flat Top. The one that looked like it had fallen over six times. Best yet, after critiquing them initially, almost every year my mom eventually comes around to liking these trees.
Which leads me to the real point.
People think Christmas is about perfection – the perfect house, the perfect photo, the perfect gifts, the perfect everything. But the moments we actually remember aren’t the flawless ones.
We remember the misfit tree.
We remember freezing with our dad in the Christmas tree lot, the uncle who had a few too many adult beverages, and the overly dry turkey.
We also remember the cousin who was allergic to the family dog and almost fell asleep at dinner after taking too much Benadryl (me) and the older brother who shot his younger brother in the rear-end from three feet away with a paintball gun he got for Christmas (also me…the shooter that is.)
Yet, somewhere along the way, we lost sight of this. Perfection, or the perception of it, has become the goal. We curate our lives on YouTube through highlight reels and post our airbrushed photos from vacation on Instagram. It’s why people are increasingly using artificial intelligence to “perfect” nearly everything they do. And yes, it’s why people are increasingly buying artificial Christmas trees….because they are easier to set up, cleaner to maintain, and “perfect” in so many ways.
But here’s the question:
By attempting to remove all the imperfections in life, are we removing the stories? The moments that make us laugh? The mistakes and imperfections that make us uniquely human?
I don’t know. Maybe I sound like the Grinch. Maybe I am overly nostalgic for the past. Maybe I just need to accept that this is what progress looks like. Or maybe, just maybe, there is something special about the tree with the flat top. The one that leans a little. The one with “character.” The one you talk about for weeks, if not years later. The one that reminds you that since perfection is impossible, you might be better off simply embracing life’s imperfections.
UPDATE:
After I finished writing this, I had a work conference in Georgia. As a result, I unfortunately had to miss the annual tree decorating night at my parent’s house, which is a highlight of the Christmas season for all of us, especially the grandkids.
This year, since it was on the same day as my flight, I called my wife when I landed to see how it was going.
Her response?
“Ted, you won’t believe it. The tree fell over.”
My reaction?
Now that’s perfect, in every sense of the word.