Here’s a short extract from my memoir:
Christmas always demanded a perfect conifer. In his mind’s eye, Jay (my husband) saw a tree that reached the ceiling, but wasn’t too wide, because it would spread out as the decorations weighed the branches down. And it must cling to its needles for dear life. During Christmases past, finding such a tree entailed visits to farms to cut our own, stopping at roadside stands, or visiting expensive nurseries. We bought a live tree for our second Christmas together, and planted it in the garden of the little house we lived in. Not long ago, driving past our first home, some thirty years later, I saw it towering above the garage we built.