My wife and I both grew up in the tradition of artificial Christmas trees. Although they were made of green painted wire, nylon needles and, probably, an intelligence-inhibiting level of lead, the fake trees still had personality and character. Year after year, their crooked and bent limbs were resurrected from cardboard coffins stored in dark, musty corners to stand tall and display a lifetime of homemade, sentimental holiday ornaments. I respect those old synthetic spruces, but my family’s new tree tradition has really taken root.

This year we’ll harvest our fourth consecutive tree from Ticonderoga Farms in Chantilly. Bundled up in a colorful combination of Auntie Michelle’s crocheted stocking caps and mittens, my wife, two sons and I will scout the nursery’s grounds for the perfect Scotch pine. With a saw in one hand and a cane-measuring pole in the other, we’ll march to the deepest corners of the lot in search of the best balance of height, width and needle distribution.

Not to belittle the art of reconstructing an artificial tree each year from a pile of glorified pipe cleaners, but lying in a cold, pine-scented puddle, sawing awkwardly with a blade not fit for steaks let alone frozen tree trunks, establishes a certain bond with your chosen tree. Inevitably I’ll be cursing myself for yet again forgetting to bring a tarp to lie on as I ignore my aching arms and blink dust and dirt from my eyes. Knowing that my wife and kids are rooting for me, I’ll flash them a stoic smile and find my smooth sawing rhythm.

Thirty minutes later, my forearms sticky with sap and spiked and stabbed by scores of prickly needles, I’ll grab the future living room decoration by its trunk and begin the slow slog to the farm’s processing center.

Flannelled farm help will quickly assess the species and height, hand us a label for payment, and then it’ll be off to the thundering tree shaker, which violently agitates dead needles, dried leaves and stowaway bugs to the ground. I’ll opt for the bored hole in the trunk’s base, and the automated twine baler will shrink the tree to a manageable cone. I’ll throw the bound bundle of branches over my shoulder and stumble toward the man-van where my less than expert lashing skills will be tested. Once in the van, I’ll ignore the newly felled tree sliding across the roof, block out the audio assault of classic Christmas tunes blaring through the speakers, and keep the helm pointed toward the South Riding Inn, where piping hot pub grub and refreshing cold beverages await.

I look forward to growing my family’s collection of sentimental ornaments and maybe, just maybe, I’ll remember to bring a tarp next year.

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MATTHEW KAISER shares humorous stories about the light side of life on his blog, deliberatelyunintentional.blogspot.com. He lives in Springfield, VA with his beautiful wife and two young sons. You can reach him at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .