Okay, here's a serious holiday tradition I posted on Facebook the other day.
It is the Sunday before Christmas. A long time ago in the small town of Dowagiac, Michigan, it was tree day. We'd all bundle up and climb into the family wagon and head off to the countryside. Dad would take us somewhere and we'd procure a tree. Often it meant traipsing through the woods on one of the family farms and sawing away, sometimes a commercial lot.
We'd head home with the prize strapped to the wagon. Once there the tree got setup in a stand in an appropriate spot on the house. And there it would stand, untouched, unadorned for the days remaining until Christmas. Christmas Eve we kids would trundle off to bed, sugarplums, etc. and the bare tree just stood there, like a neglected houseplant.
Come Christmas morning and it was a miracle! The lowly conifer would be awash in blazing glory, a spectacle of unmatched proportion to be taken in by excited, but sleepy young eyes. And all the boxes and bags and toys and such sprawled out beneath it, on the greatest day of the year.
That, my friends, was a Christmas Tree!