BY JOHN MCLOONE

There’s a lot of debate going on in our country right now. Sometimes, the discourse is less than civil.
Sometimes, opinions of other people offend us. But let’s not let that ruin the holiday.
Over the years, my views have changed on a lot of things. I don’t believe in a lot of the things I believed in back in the decades when there was hair on my head. As I’ve become more seasoned, I don’t invest as much into learning why the other side thinks the way they do.
It’s pretty much just I’m right, and you’re wrong.
Over the course of my lifetime, there’s one issue where my views on a subject changed, and now they’re cemented to the point where they’ll never change again. I realize that for all the aggravation I endured, getting a natural Christmas tree was never worth it.
There, I said it. Take your shots at me. You want to start a Thanksgiving squabble, I’m ready to stand my ground.
I used to refer to myself as a Christmas purist. There would be no metal pole with spray painted plastic branches sitting in my living room. I was enlisted onto team Real Tree as a teen. My dad, who was probably about the age I am now, vowed never again to go through the hassle of a real tree. I stepped forward to save Christmas. It was my annual duty post-Thanksgiving to find the perfect tree, strap it to the car, hack off the end, fight with the tree stand, hack off the end some more, try to straighten the #$@% thing, drag it outside, hack off a little more and get the screws wedged in perfect, loosen them again to move it a half-inch to the left and realize my left wasn’t their left so loosen them again and get it an inch the other way. It was such a satisfying process.
Until I realized it wasn’t, but that took many, many years. We were never the crazy family that actually traversed through snow-covered fields and whacked down a fir with an ax. The Rotary or some other civic group set up in a parking lot, and you went right after Thanksgiving to get the pick of the pines. I continued that tradition with my own family. The Saturday after Thanksgiving was set aside for procuring and placing the tree. It could be a several-hour affair. The whole gang used to come then it dwindled down to just one or two and then it was me. I realized it was a tradition that was not getting passed down to the next generation.
And that I was the one creating this situation. As soon as I left my parents’ home, they ditched the real tree. I certainly appreciated the appearance and aroma of the real thing, but I realized it didn’t outweigh the aggravation, the watering, the needles everywhere.
Just like that one year, the Saturday after Thanksgiving to be exact, we came across the perfect – for us – tree. It wasn’t in the gas station parking lot. It was inside a warm store.
Best of all, now my wife is in charge of the project. It has worked well for the few years we’ve had it. It’s caused me zero aggravation. It’s simplified things considerably.
If only I knew then what I know now.