Growing up, I spent at least twenty Decembers covered with pine needles and sticky with sap, working my family's Christmas-tree lot in Scottsdale, Arizona. Even today, the lot is a much loved, and missed, part of my childhood, one that's inextricably linked to my concept of Christmas. I try not to wince when friends string up their plastic Nobles or store-bought Scotch pines: If you can't smell it, if it doesn't require water, it ain't a tree. Tree... More >>>