Where, oh where is the per- fect Christmas tree? Lush and green, thick with branches, rich with supple needles and, above all, straight and stable.

Not in my house.

For many Christmases, I have hunted for the perfect tree. I have bought trees from rosy-cheeked Boy Scouts and greasy gas station attendants. I have trekked into my own woods with axe and saw, and have done the same at tree farms. I have bought trees in the parking lots of upscale food stores. Trees so expensive that I had to put them on my credit card.

And the result has always been the same.

I have taken the tree home and set it aside to let the branches, as we say, fall out. And they have done this too successfully. I have dragged the tree inside and wedged it in one of my collection of tree stands. I have crammed it into a corner and secured it with wire. Then, I have made my fatal mistake: I turned my back on the tree.

Almost at once there was a subtle sproinging sound, the sound of wood under stress. When I turned back to the tree in what was by then my traditional Christmas alarm, the tree had developed curvature of the spine and a pronounced list. At the same time, the air was thick with evergreen needles falling to the floor. Then, gaps began to appear through which one could drive a reindeer. (A small reindeer, but a reindeer nonetheless.)

Christmas had arrived at the Rush household.

I don’t know why Christmas trees have ganged up on me, because almost every Christmas I go to a great deal of trouble to find the perfect tree. I say “almost every Christmas” because one year we were running a couple of days late so I bought a second-hand tree for $1. It looked like a hat rack.

For example, one year we piled into our ancient Volkswagen for an almost 400-kilometre round trip into the country, trudged through deep snow in frigid cold and cut a good-looking tree. Not too big, but big enough to require the passenger seat and an open window. When we finally erected the tree, we found its pristine charm had disappeared.

Another year when I was carless, I bought a Scotch pine in Toronto and wrestled it on to the subway through one of those tall iron-maiden turnstiles you must go through when you pick an entrance where no one is collecting fares. For a while it looked as if the tree and I would spend the festive season in the turnstile, but we fought our way through.

We were not popular, the tree and I, that rush hour; but we did make it home together. I had hopes that this tree and I would have bonded by the time we got there, but when we finally got it set up — sproingggg — instant palsy of the pine.

When last Christmas loomed, I prepared to go into our own woods for a tree. I knew it wouldn’t be bushy but at least it would be fresh. I was strapping on my snowshoes when wiser heads prevailed: the hour of the artificial tree had come. No ugly gaps, no falling needles, no curvature of the spine.

We opted for a biggish tree that came in a coffin-sized box and was festooned with perhaps 2,000 miniature lights. The instructions said it could be assembled by a seven-year-old, but lacking one of those I put it up myself in less than a day.

Frankly, it looked splendid over there in a far corner and had it not been for the tag that said “Made in China,” I could have passed it off as the real thing. It served well, neither shedding nor falling over. And, when Christmas was over, it took me only a day to get it apart.

The question for this Christmas is: Can I get it back together? And the answer is: Probably not.

I suspect it’s time to get out the snowshoes and the saw. IE