The first Saturday of each December belonged to Grandma Cooper.
It was the day Chere and I went Christmas tree shopping with her, and shopping is probably too casual a word for what this really was. We never visited a Christmas tree lot lined with neatly tied, pre-cut trees. Grandma Cooper simply wouldn’t have any part of that. A Christmas tree, in her mind, had to be chosen—earned, even.
So we went to Arend Tree Farms in Grass Lake, Michigan, saws in hand, on a mission to find the perfect Scotch Pine Christmas tree. Not just any tree would do. Grandma Cooper’s eye was far too sharp for that.
The moment we arrived, Chere and I raced ahead into the rows of evergreens, darting between trees with the kind of excitement only children can muster. We knew the rules by heart. The tree couldn’t be too tall or too short, too wide or too skinny. Its branches needed to be sturdy, its needles full and evenly spread, with no obvious gaps to spoil its shape.
Then came the tests.
First, the branch pull. Tug gently, then look down. A few needles might fall near the trunk—that was acceptable, though final judgment always rested with Grandma Cooper. Next, the needle squeeze. We pinched a single needle between our fingers. If it bent, the tree stayed in the running. If it snapped clean in half, we moved on. No discussion.
And finally, the most important step of all: the smell test.
If it didn’t smell like Christmas, it simply wasn’t the tree.
Grandma Cooper taught us everything we knew about choosing the perfect Scotch Pine Christmas tree, and we took that responsibility seriously. Chere and I zigzagged through the farm, calling out every promising discovery. Grandma Cooper followed at her own pace, unhurried and smiling. She knew we might change our minds once or twice before she arrived. We wanted her approval more than anything, and we hoped—quietly—that she wouldn’t say, “Not this one, keep looking.”
What we wanted to hear was, “That is the perfect Scotch Pine Christmas tree for us.”
When that moment finally came, it was my job to cut the trunk as low to the ground as possible. I knew I’d need to trim another half-inch or so once we got the tree home, but this cut mattered. Chere and I then dragged the tree behind us, proud and slightly out of breath, following Grandma Cooper back to where we started. The reward for our hard work waited for us there: hot chocolate topped with marshmallows.
Back at Grandma Cooper’s house, the real magic began.
Grandma Cooper strung the lights while Chere and I got busy creating ornaments and paper chains. We cut snowflakes, snowmen, and round circles, coloring them carefully before adding thread. Soon enough, Grandma Cooper appeared with gingerbread men and frosted Christmas sugar cookies, along with more hot chocolate—marshmallows included, of course. Some cookies made it to our plates, and a few gained string so they could hang on the tree.
Then came the popcorn.
Grandma Cooper brought out a large bowl, needle and thread ready. We worked hard to string long garlands, though progress was slow. Chere ate nearly as much popcorn as she strung—at least, that’s how I remember it. It might have been both of us, but I’m fairly certain it was Chere. Grandma Cooper had to make popcorn more than once to reach the length she wanted, and when she finally draped it on the tree, it felt like an accomplishment.
The finishing touches were simple and perfect: cinnamon sticks and candy canes tucked into the branches.
There is something special about a Christmas tree decorated with handmade creations. That tree wasn’t just beautiful—it was filled with laughter, singing, and the quiet joy of working together. Every year, Grandma Cooper’s perfect Christmas tree stood as a reminder that the best traditions are the ones made by hand and shared with love.
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