From The Old Farmer's Almanac.
First Published December 13, 2007
I have a confession to make. I have forsaken a genuine, coniferous Christmas tree for a Jiffy tree. I call it the Jiffy tree because it is a fake—a fully decorated, artificial tree that spends 11 months of the year stretch wrapped in my basement. That is until sometime in early December, when I make my annual pilgrimage downstairs, hoist the tree up and onto my shoulder and haul it up to the living room. Then it’s simply a matter of cutting off its see-through straight-jacket, plugging in the lights and—viola!—instant Christmas.
I do feel a bit guilty, mind you, depriving my children of the experience of decorating, but my wife loves not having to strip down the tree each year and store all of the delicate baubles and lights. Besides, my daughter still gets to hang one or two new ornaments on the tree each year, and—so far, at least—she hasn’t used Dad and Grinch in the same sentence. Oh, I almost forgot to mention that this year I put the tree into an attractive metre-tall, black planter that is half filled with concrete blocks. That way, Little Brother can’t reach up and pull off the irresistibly shiny decorations and we nicely thwart the dog’s desire to expand her chew toy repertoire. Aah, the Jiffy tree—easy, safe and puppy proof …Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!
But while I’ve warmed to the idea of the no fuss, no mess, artificial, fully decorated, Christmas tree, there is one void that the Jiffy tree will never fill in me—that deep longing for good, old-fashioned alpine fragrance that takes me back to my childhood. On the farm we always had a fresh-cut white spruce, and we would no sooner have a faux tree than we would cancel Christmas. For me, the wonderful aroma was every bit as important as any perfectly adorned holiday symbol.
What is that aromatic stuff that I find myself longing for in December? Well, it’s all about family, and family in this case is what is missing with artificial trees. The family to which I refer is a group of plant-synthesized chemicals called terpenoids. I suppose one could really call the terpenoids an extended family because scientists have concluded that there are about 15,000 chemicals from a wide range of plants that are responsible for giving each plant species its characteristic scent.
The name terpenoid derives from the fact that the first compounds in the group were isolated from turpentine (an oil distilled from resins of coniferous trees). When you crush the needles of evergreens, the terpenoids are released from the damaged resin ducts and a wonderful fragrance escapes. But terpenoids also escape naturally. Warm temperatures encourage the oils to become volatile and waft out of the needles. In fact, the Smoky Mountains of the southern U.S. owe their name to the clouds of these chemicals that emanate from the pine trees during warm, calm weather. Terpenoids have many functions in plants besides fragrance, not the least of which is to serve as antifeedants (products that discourage feeding) to many insect and animal species—although the deer and porcupine I know don’t seem aware of this fact.
One practical thing to remember about terpenoids is that they’ll tell you how “fresh” a tree is. A Christmas tree that doesn’t release a lot of fragrance when its needles are crushed may mean that the tree is past its prime and dried out. A dried out tree is a fire hazard, so use the fragrant terpenoids as an indicator of the quality of the tree you want to purchase. Keep in mind that the sniff test isn’t that reliable when the tree is frozen solid.
Although I can add small amounts of alpine scent to my home by decorating with fresh wreaths and evergreen arrangements, alas, I suspect that the fragrant Christmases of my childhood won’t be recaptured. Once one switches to the Jiffy tree, it’s a hard habit to break. I do, however, think I owe it to the kids to let them experience at least one Christmas with the terpenoids. It would require a bit more work, and my decorating skills leave a lot to be desired, but who knows? Once the kids get a whiff of the real thing, I might be forced to retire the Jiffy permanently.
