Tree: Real or Fake?

I have a collection of random memories surrounding the holidays. A few days ago at work, we were discussing family traditions and the eternal christmas question - Tree: Real or Fake.
Well, our family had two adults with opposing viewpoints on this topic. My father was a Fake Tree Man all the way. And he bought a tree that was the biggest annoyance of my holidays. Well, he bought this tree well before I was born, and in his mind it should last at least until I was ready for the nursing home. My dad was a practical man. A one-time investment, spread out over Christmases Infinite would mean the tree would cost pennies by the end of its evergreen life.
Mom wasn't convinced. Don't get me wrong, mom would use the tree in a pinch. Some holidays were just too hectic for tree hunting. But she wasn't one to give up on a Real Tree.
Bringing me to those random memories about tree hunting. This all took place either before the concept of tree farms became very big, or because mom couldn't get dad to relinquish the thought that the tree should be free. But my mother was raised with a rural mindset. She wasn't to be discouraged by that rule.
And that's where the bow saw came in.
Some time, it would have been before I was 10, we lived in the Coosawhatchie House, on the coast of South Carolina. I remember being at home when my mother arrived from work one afternoon.
"I saw the perfect tree, right on the side of the road. Get the bow saw."
Off we went. My mother drove a dark blue station wagon at the time, so having the capacity to haul a tree was no problem.
"Mom, we can't just cut down someone's tree."
"Of course we can. It's on public land. No one is going to notice." Well, she was right, it was on public land. We drove across the interstate. We turned off on the frontage road, which ran between I-95 and the railroad tracks. A few yards down, she pulled over to the side and pointed to the top of the hill.
"That's it. It's perfect."
I focused my attention where she was pointing. A ridge ran near the train tracks, and growing near that ridge was the top of what looked like a pretty decent tree. And that's what mom wanted me to cut.
What mom didn't realize from the road was that the tree was growing on the other side of the ridge, so we weren't looking at the entire tree, just the top. I remembered explaining that to her as I stood on the ridge.
"Well just cut off the top, that's all we need." So I did. And because we couldn't put up the tree until closer to Christmas, we took it home, stuck it in a big 5-gallon bucket and filled that with water, setting it discreetly on the porch until it was time to put it up, still in that bucket which would be covered with a tree skirt.
I think of how often my mom travelled those roads as a community health nurse, and how often she must have passed that tree, deciding if it really was perfect for Christmas. That day, I might have been a little embarrassed, but I had a fearless mom. And Real won out that year.
I hope, this year, as we are all perhaps tightening our belts more than usual, that you're making wise decisions about what things to concentrate on and what things to let slide right on by. Whether it's a tree, a favorite recipe, or someone special who needs to hear how much you care about them, I hope this year, you fearlessly choose Real over Fake too.
No offense, dad. It's a metaphor, and I'm sure that old tree misses you.
--Laura