‘I’m not strapping a tree to the roof racks and bringing to Mum’s. She wouldn’t want that.’ The year was 1988 and the directive came from my yet to be husband. ‘She obviously has a Christmas tree already,’ he said. (Or something along those lines).
But his mum’s synthetic was not even a meter high (I knew this from the previous year) and it came with the decorations permanently attached. Also, I was four months in on being a mum myself and come from a long line of mothers who have held up traditions—Swedish ones. We drove to my future mother-in-law’s with a Radiata Pine strapped to the roofracks.
With tight lips, his mum decided to be the bigger person, and tucked her tree in the wardrobe while ours mine was placed in a bucket of water and propped up against the wall. I had no lights for the tree and the decorations my future mother-in-law dug out of a box, crowded the five unruly branches. Needless to say, when we left, the tree came with us leaving a trail of yellowed pine needles behind.
I have memories from the 70’s of trudging with one or both sisters behind our father, our boots crunching through compact snow, walking between Norway Spruce saplings, blanketed in white. We’d look for a straight tree top, evenly placed branches, and plenty of them. Once a tree was cut, we’d help pulling it back to the car.
Our dad would shake the snow off the tree before carrying it inside. The special jute mat would be laid out in a suitable corner of our living room with a water filled Christmas tree stand with screws that would hold the trunk. The scent of pine was instant.
After the electric lights had been arranged from top to bottom, our family would decorate the tree together. The boxes with ornaments were familiar like old toys—the long strings of Swedish flags, the yule goats and stars made of straw, the antique clip-on birds with feather tails, the baubles that, if you dropped them, wouldn’t bounce but smash into little pieces, the paper stars our Mum had painstakingly made, and our hand crafted foil hearts.
The finished tree was the entry to the delicious space of Christmas—the ginger breads, the chocolates, the gingerbread house covered in lollies, the fudge we’d made, the marzipan sweets, mustard-glazed ham, a house that smelled of cinnamon and mulled wine, a fridge and a pantry filled with food. The tree was the centre piece. It was lit when I went to bed and still sparkling when I got up in the morning. It was magic.
I pursued authentic trees for a few years, but in the early 90’s I gave up. I bought a 1.8m high, synthetic spruce that came in three pieces, in a box the size of a small cupboard. The ‘branches’ were pulled in tight toward the metal trunk, and I had to spend a good half hour opening them up. After that there were scentless, synthetic pine needles all over the floor.
My mum came to visit and brought with her proper Swedish tree lights, a big box of straw decorations, and white stars she’d crocheted and starched. I invested a little money every year towards quality baubles in red, green, and gold.
Once the kids were in school, they’d always bring home ornaments they’d made. Once our ‘dressing the tree’ routine was over, I’d surreptitiously readjust, hanging their paddle pop and cotton wool creations more towards the back. Apparently I’m not the only one with tree OCD. Our creation shone superior among our children’s friends. We had the ‘sickest’ tree.
I persuaded my husband from the beginning to celebrate Christmas Eve as well as Christmas Day. It was only fair since I’d come all this way to start a new life. For the kids it was a no brainer. They’d get their presents before everyone else, and they could stay up until midnight. Slowly but surely, the former shoved aside the latter.
On the evening of the 24th, we have our version of a Swedish Yule smorgasbord. By the time we sit down by the tree, it’s dark outside. Even if it’s still muggy, I’ll have candles lit, and fairy lights. If it rains outside, if it’s cooler than usual, I can almost picture our front lawn covered in snow, I can almost feel as if it’s Christmas. Almost. But not quite. After 37 years in Australia, I still miss Svensk Jul.

Last night, I thought of Christmas trees. And I thought of childhood nostalgia. And I thought about my parents. They passed on wonderful traditions, held together by our mum. But what I have no memory of is us laughing as a family, my parents enjoying each others company, and drawing us kids into their love.
In a few days, my children with their partners will be home. Lots has happened since we were all together in Western Australia. It’s been a tough seven months with my husband’s illness, and I don’t have the usual energy. No wreath has made it to the door.
Last year, we were on our own and for the first time in my entire life the tree stayed in the box. This year I’ll set it up in its usual corner so we can all breathe in two years of mildew. Hubby and I’ll sit back and watch the younger generation dress it. We will light up our home with fairy lights, candles, and a sparkling tree. With a professional chef in the family and lots of capable cooks, we’ll have a culinary concoction of dishes. There will be a present each from ‘Secret Santa’. But better than all of that, we will fill this house with laughter.