The novelty of short stories

When I was in third or fourth grade my teacher gave us a Christmas creative writing assignment. We were instructed to write a short story that personified a symbol of Christmas and tell the story from that object or animal's perspective. I'm sure there were a lot of stories about the Christ child and Santa Claus, which I'm sure were lovely. I decided, however, to write my first environmentalist piece. So from the time I was 9 or 10 I was a liberal, tree-hugger. And my converted Republican hippie parents (soon to be converted back for the next election) wonder why I'm a card-carrying Democrat.

Nonetheless, I wrote about a Christmas trees idyllic life on a tree farm. The tree lived happily, without any concept of what Christmas was beyond a few murmured words from people walking by him. This was his existence until one day he saw an adorable family hiking through his section of the farm. He couldn't help but think that the children were cute and that the family was cheerful. But suddenly he felt a sharp, metal object slice through his torso. (I know! I was kind of a graphic 9-yr-old.) The rest of the play is about the tree's slow death and his perception of what Christmas is. He feels some sort of satisfaction in that his death enabled the family to enjoy this special holiday. But eventually the tree is left dead and abandoned outside in the woods behind the family's house. I think I made reference to a pine cone falling off that might spring new life or something like that. I was very much a product of the Disney "Circle of Life" concept.

Now, I think back to that story every time I smell pine and see Christmas trees. Last night I walked into my apartment to discover a Christmas tree. I never thought I'd have a real one living here in Utah. They are very expensive. But it's the perfect size for our apartment. It was the first thing I saw when I walked in the door last night. And I threw down everything I was carrying in my hands and danced all around it. So apparently I have some limitations on the depths of my environmentalism. And apparently my tree's death will give me great joy throughout the next two and a half weeks of December-Provo life.

So who knows what my third grade mind was on about when I wrote that story. I'm just glad to have something that smells like pine and is green in my home.