Who Shot the Christmas Tree?
By Ricky Fitzpatrick for The Creative South
In the South, we take Christmas trees pretty seriously. Even now, with half the country going the artificial route…pre-lit, color-coded branches, “evergreen scent” from a spray can…we still treat the tree like the opening act of the whole holiday season.
These days, we have an artificial one ourselves. It’s sensible, tidy, and it doesn’t leave needles everywhere like a shedding porcupine. You unfold it, fluff it, plug it in, and suddenly your living room looks like a Southern Living cover you can afford.
But it wasn’t always this way. Not in the small-town South.
Once, Christmas trees weren’t purchased. They were retrieved.
You didn’t drive to a tree farm with string lights and a guy in a puffy coat selling Frasier Firs for $175. You didn’t stroll around with a peppermint mocha discussing “shape,” “fullness,” or “branch density.” You didn’t park near a “photo-op station” with a rustic sled and a pre-decorated wreath.
No, sir.
You went out into the woods. You walked through pine straw and frost, crunching leaves under boots. You took a deep breath, and you looked for cedar.
Well, because in the South, Christmas trees come in one species: cedar. That’s the way God intended it, and every Southerner knows it.
And your tree wasn’t trimmed to perfection. It wasn’t symmetrical. It wasn’t “professionally shaped.” It had character. Quirks. It had a flat side you worked around every year.
When we found The One…tall enough, green enough, and prickly enough…we admired it. Circled it. Nodded in approval. And then…
We shot it.
I know it sounds almost inhumane in today’s world. But my dad would pull out his .38, squint one eye, and crack! A tiny puff of sawdust would burst from the trunk, then we’d dig the bullet out like we were prepping evidence for a courtroom. We’d look up, grin at each other, and then that was the moment we knew:
This is our Christmas tree.
Only after the shot was taken would I cut it down. Then my father would unbuckle his belt, fashion a sling, and we’d drag the tree out of the woods like a father-son hunting victory.
The irony isn’t lost on me now. People today drive to tree farms (which we love to visit) and pay good money to choose from a tidy row of beautiful, manicured cypress, spruce, or fancy “Blue Ice” varieties.
But you can’t shoot your tree at a tree farm.
You’d be escorted off the property. Probably banned from the county.
And in big cities? New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta? Good God, they’d call the SWAT team if you stepped out of your car holding anything more dangerous than a peppermint stick.
But in a small town in the South? It was just another Saturday in December.
Now…
Now I take our artificial tree out of a box. It stands perfectly straight. It doesn’t lean, shed, or poke me in the arm like an angry woodland creature. I plug it in, step back, and admire its beauty.
But some years…when the lights hit just right…I miss those cedar Christmases.
Those cold mornings. Those prickly branches. Those father-and-son adventures.
And yes…I miss that moment when we declared: “This one’s ours.”
So as we enter this Christmas Season, let me wish you and yours a blessed and joyful holiday, filled with rich memories, an abundance of family, and a mixture of old and new traditions, whether your tree is artificial, locally grown, or…acquired by more aggressive methods.
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This piece comes from The Creative South, a collection of Southern stories, small-town humor, and everyday reflections from Ricky Fitzpatrick. Thanks for reading, and be sure to follow along for more!
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