christmas tree deaths

I was out running today and the air smelled strongly of pine. At first, I thought it was just because of the recent warm weather waking up the sap or something. But then I realized it was abandoned Christmas trees, tossed out into the gutter. It seemed like every other house on my route had a tree outside. It's such a strange ritual, this chopping down of trees for a temporary decorative purpose. And I can't say that I don't understand the appeal. Growing up, I was mildly outraged when my parents stopped buying a natural tree and opted for the synthetic and reusable. The first year I lived in Illinois, I made my then-boyfriend help me tote a tree home and help me string cranberries and make ornaments out of cinnamon and applesauce. Something about the smell of pine in my living room made me feel less homesick, calmer. The abandoned trees reminded me of Hans Christian Anderson's sentimental tale of the little fir tree that desperately wants to leave the forest to become the mast on a sailing ship or, better yet, a Christmas tree. But it all turns out very sad, the once happy tree abandoned in an attic and then burned up in a big fire--all the while regretting how he didn't appreciate his life in the woods. The story is maudlin and asserts an obvious moral, but it always kills me. Maybe it's because when I was in kindergarten, they showed us a film version of the story. And I can still see the image of the fir tree being thrown haphazardly on the ground, the flames wrapping around its branches.