Sally Breslin: My Life: REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I WANTED A REAL CHRISTMAS TREE THIS YEAR?

Just when I started feeling good about having an artificial Christmas tree, some unknown demons of Christmases past came and conked me on the head and made me crave a real tree this year. The problem was, I didn’t want to spend any money for one.

So last Saturday I grabbed my hacksaw and headed off into the deep, savage wilderness – better known as my back yard – in search of a suitable tree. After an hour of tromping through the snow on my eight acres, I was convinced that every tree on my property was a lifetime member of some club exclusively reserved for trees that didn’t even remotely resemble Christmas trees. Never had I seen such an array of lopsided, bald, branch-deprived, scrawny specimens all gathered in one place.

Still, I reminded myself that for the price I was going to pay for the tree, I couldn’t expect perfection, so I’d have to concentrate on its other assets, such as the nice “piney” smell and its symbolism, not on the fact it had only about six branches and looked as if it had been in the direct path of a moose stampede.

As luck would have it, there turned out to be a fairly shapely pine about seven feet tall growing only inches from my chain-link fence. I knew that in a couple more years, it would be growing right up against the fence and probably would have to be cut down anyway, so I convinced myself I would be doing it a favor if I didn’t prolong the inevitable.

“Hey there, Mr. Tree,” I said to it. “How would you like to come into a nice warm house and be beautifully decorated? Wouldn’t that be better than standing out here in the cold and being a sitting target for bird poop?”

I’m not sure why, but I suddenly had the distinct feeling the tree actually preferred the bird poop.

Gripping my saw, I dropped to my knees and started to attack the tree. The trunk was skinny – too skinny for such a big tree – yet it felt as if I were trying to saw through solid concrete. After 10 minutes of vigorous sawing, my heart was racing, my armpits were damp, and my shoulders ached, yet I’d managed to make only a half-inch notch in the trunk. By the time the tree finally toppled over about four hours later (or so it seemed), I had no feeling left in my arms.

Dragging the tree over to the driveway was much more difficult than I’d imagined. For one thing, the tree was about as lightweight as a 100-lb. sack of concrete. As I slowly inched it toward the driveway, a chorus of so many grunting noises escaped me, I began to fear I’d be attacked by a wild boar in search of a mate.

I finally managed to lean the tree against the garage, then brought out the tree-stand – a red-and-green metal monstrosity on green legs, with giant Frankenstein-like bolts sticking out of it. I hoisted the tree into the stand and then began to screw the bolts into the trunk to secure it. The trunk was so thin, the screws, even at their full length, couldn’t reach it. Still, foolish optimist that I was, I let go of the tree, thinking it might still be able to stand on its own.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t.

As the tree started to keel over, I twisted around to grab it and felt something pull between my ribs. The tree crashed to the driveway, the stand flew up into the air, and the little prong thing in the bottom of the stand, onto which the trunk was supposed to be impaled, tore right off.

I, hunched over and grasping my ribs, was unable to straighten up. It felt as if a muscle had tied itself into a big knot. So I decided to lie down in a fetal position on the driveway and wait until the muscle loosened up a bit.

As I lay there, right next to my fallen Christmas tree, I couldn’t help but chuckle at how the scene would look to a neighbor walking by. I even imagined what the news headlines might say: “Elderly Woman’s Frozen Body Found Lying Next to a Savagely Hacksawed Pine Tree in Her Driveway.”

When my muscle finally started to relax a bit, I slowly got up and then walked over to my neighbor’s house. When he answered the door, I threw myself at his mercy and begged him to help me set up the tree. To my relief, he and his wife both agreed to come to my aid.

After using Gorilla Glue to reattach the prong-thing into the bottom of the stand, and adding a couple pieces of wood to the tree’s trunk to make it thicker so the screws could reach it, the tree finally stood proudly on its own. My neighbor carried it into the house and set it in the designated corner of the living room. The tree, however, turned out to be too tall, so the top of it leaned over into a sideways U shape, scraping against the ceiling. No problem, my neighbor said, and promptly hacked six inches off the top of the tree. It made it look a bit square across the top, but I wasn’t about to complain. I profusely thanked both my neighbor and his wife and then breathed a sigh of relief (which wasn’t easy because my midriff muscle still was really sore), grateful to finally have the tree standing in the house.

The first thing I did was fill the stand with water so the tree wouldn’t dry out and end up bald, with all of its needles lying in a heap on the floor. Then I started to decorate it. I’d barely managed to wrap the string of lights once around the very top when I felt the tree begin to lean forward, right toward me.

I grabbed it to steady it, but I couldn’t make it stand up straight again. It seemed determined to tip forward. As it did, the stand, which was full of water, began to tip with it. The last thing I wanted was a flood on my floor, so I strengthened my grasp on the tree...and stood there holding it.

“How long am I just going to stand here?” I muttered to myself after nearly five minutes had passed. “The tree isn’t going to miraculously straighten up and stand tall again – it’s going to fall over...guaranteed.”

I tried to lean the tree back toward the wall in the corner so it wouldn’t fall, but it refused to lean back...only forward. Finally, I admitted defeat, sighed and let go of the tree. It crashed to the floor, sending a shower of water flying up everywhere.

I’m ashamed to admit I called the tree a lot of very un-Christmas-like names at that point. I could swear I heard it cackling maniacally.

I cleaned up the mess and then, in a moment of anger and frustration, carried the tree out to the garage and flung it on top of the trash barrels.

“There!” I snapped. “I hope you enjoy the cold, dark garage, Fir-Face!”

The next day, however, while I was shopping in a local store, I happened to see a different type of tree-stand that sort of resembled a big dog-bowl. It was green plastic and sat flat on the floor – no legs to tip over. Suddenly, I had a change of heart and decided to give the tree another chance. I bought the stand, and when I got home, I immediately shoved the tree into it. The screw-bolts had no trouble reaching the skinny trunk, and within minutes, the tree was solidly anchored and standing tall and straight.

I brought the tree back into the house and stood it in the corner once again, all the while expecting it to do what it did best – topple over and impale my gallbladder with a branch. But as I decorated it, it continued to remain solid. Not even so much as a needle moved on it.

The end result was not perfect by any means, but I have to admit I really am enjoying the tree.

And after all of the pain and torture it put me through, I’m pretty sure I won’t be taking it down until mid-April.