I can still recall the smell of burning wax and the sound of crackling candles as our German grandmother lit her Christmas tree with dozens of finger-length fiery tapers. Before bed, someone would have to extinguish the flames and, next eve, the whole procedure of lighting the tree would begin again. Everyone, including my older brother and I, would then sit around the tree and sing Oh Tannenbaum, a German/Jewish song about evergreens turned Christmas carol. We’d sing it both in English and German. It was the 1950’s and Christmases from that point forward were marked by the changing of trees and new babies.

By the time little brother Andrew was born in ’58, we’d already moved from grandma’s house to a home of our own in a neighboring town. That year, the tree was genuine; the candles gone; replaced by traditional ornaments; shiny and colorful, and made of the thinnest glass. When one cracked, which was rare, the shards were slimmer than eggshells. Other ornaments were in the shape of little houses covered in the finest glitter. A rainbow of lightbulbs was wound from top to bottom, and the whole tree was thickly draped in tinsel. I lived for the tinsel.

A year later, the first artificial tree arrived probably because mother no longer wished to chase dead needles into springtime. The fake tree may have passed for real if it weren’t for the vast amounts of white flocking sprayed onto each branch; so thick it was sometimes hard to get an ornament to hang, but we managed. When mother announced that fake snow was better than tinsel and therefore tinsel was not needed, I had a tantrum.

Little sister Laura came along in ’60 and that December an artificial tree, shockingly all white, glared defiantly at us from its sunny corner. Though its branches were unnaturally bent they proudly displayed a bevy of identical red baubles the size of oranges. Our traditional doodads, the little houses and the thin glass ornaments, didn’t appear that year nor did the tree get any light bulbs or tinsel. I distanced myself from the tree though I secretly liked it. It marked the beginning of much needed change in the world.

Little brother Matthew arrived on October 3rd, 1965, the day before Pope Paul (the first pope to leave Italy since 1809) visited the United States. That Christmas, Mother erected a glorious silver aluminum tree made entirely of razor-cut tinsel. I was nine years old and life could not be better. This would be my favorite tree until I left home ten years later.

On the Upper West Side of NYC, where I, a mere teenage-baby, relocated, there was an outdoor marketplace with real trees for sale; none of which I could afford. I was living on a full-time salary of $90 a week, $88 after taxes. One day, a miracle occurred. I found a discarded market-tree in perfect condition right in front of my apartment building. When no one was looking, I grabbed the tree by its stump and dragged it up my fifth floor walk-up. It left a telltale trail of needles and branches, but I didn’t care. I was a punk rocker.

That evening, after purchasing some cheap lights, I sat in the dark and admired the lit tree. It was beautiful, but as the night wore on, a curious crunching sound began emanating from its very core. Switching on the light, the situation became apparent; there was an infestation of cockroaches chomping on the tree. In one fell swoop, I tore the lights off, grabbed the tree and dragged it down the stairs and out into the cold where I left it on the side of the road. The next day, I looked out my window and watched as a passerby innocently inspected the tree. Throwing on my coat, I ran to inform him of the roaches. By the time I got outside, however, he was gone and so was the tree. In reverence, I sang a few verses of Oh Tannenbaum in English and then also in German. Some people clapped.