Welcome to Day 14 of Blogmas 2025, where I’m now two weeks into this self-imposed December writing marathon and starting to question my life choices. For those just discovering this festive endurance test, Blogmas is my annual tradition of posting holiday-themed content every single day through Christmas. This year’s posts are guided by AI-generated prompts, which explains why today I’m writing about: A Christmas tree lot at night—write a story about what happens when the trees “talk” after closing.

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The Night Shift at Pine & Needle

The “CLOSED” sign flipped at 9 PM sharp at Pine & Needle Christmas Tree Lot, and Eddie the owner’s truck rumbled away into the December night. The string of bare bulbs overhead stayed on—apparently humans thought trees needed light for security reasons, which was ridiculous considering trees had been managing just fine in forests for millions of years without a single streetlamp.

For exactly three minutes, the lot was silent except for the distant sound of traffic on Route 47. Then, from the back row where the Douglas Firs stood in neat formation, came a long, rustling sigh.

“Finally. I thought that woman was never going to stop squeezing me,” said Douglas, an eight-footer who’d been there since Thanksgiving. “She grabbed my middle branch seventeen times. SEVENTEEN. I counted.”

“At least she didn’t shake you,” grumbled Scotch Pine from two rows over. “Some kid thought I was a giant maraca today. Nearly lost half my needles.”

Fraser, a newly arrived Fraser Fir still adjusting to lot life, rustled his branches nervously. He’d only been delivered that morning from the farm, and this was his first night hearing the others talk. Back at the farm, the older trees had warned him about lot life, but he hadn’t really believed them.

“Excuse me,” Fraser ventured tentatively. “But why do they shake us? Is it some sort of greeting ritual?”

The entire lot erupted in what could only be described as tree laughter—a sound like wind through a thousand branches.

“Oh, honey,” said Virginia Pine, a statuesque beauty near the front. “You really are fresh off the truck, aren’t you? They’re checking to see if our needles fall off.”

“But why would our needles—”

“Because apparently,” interrupted Balsam, who considered himself something of a philosopher, “humans judge our worth by how well we retain our needles after being severed from our roots, transported hundreds of miles, and stood up in a parking lot. It’s their primary selection criterion.”

Fraser was bewildered. “That seems… arbitrary.”

“You haven’t heard the half of it,” said Noble, an expensive Noble Fir with perfect branch spacing. “Today a man measured the distance between my branches with an actual ruler. A RULER. He said he needed ‘adequate ornament clearance.'”

“What’s an ornament?” Fraser asked.

Another round of rustling laughter.

“Those gaudy baubles they hang on us,” explained Douglas. “You’ll see soon enough. Some family will take you home, stand you in their living room, wrap you in tiny electric lights—”

“Electric lights?” Fraser’s top wobbled with concern. “That sounds like a fire hazard.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” confirmed Scotch Pine cheerfully. “But wait, it gets better. After the lights, they hang these… things. Glass balls, tiny figurines, strings of popcorn for some inexplicable reason. One family last year—I heard this from a Nordmann who survived the season—they hung tiny pickles on him. PICKLES.”

“I don’t understand,” Fraser said weakly. “We’re trees. We’re supposed to provide oxygen, shelter for wildlife, prevent soil erosion. Why would anyone hang pickles on us?”

“Million-dollar question, kid,” said Blue Spruce, who was considered the elder statesman of the lot despite only being there for two weeks. “Near as we can figure, humans have some sort of winter ritual where they bring trees indoors—which is already backwards if you ask me—and then compete to see who can make us look most ridiculous.”

“The worst part,” added Virginia Pine, “is the tree topper. Some families use stars, which, fine, whatever. But others use these figurines—angels, apparently, though they look nothing like any bird I’ve ever seen—and jam them right on your crown. Do you know how uncomfortable it is having a porcelain person shoved on your apex?”

Fraser tried to process this information. “So let me understand. They cut us down, bring us inside their homes, cover us in lights and random objects, and this is… celebratory?”

“Apparently it commemorates something,” said Balsam vaguely. “I heard a woman today talking about ‘keeping the Christ in Christmas,’ whatever that means. Though I didn’t see anyone keeping anything in anything. Mostly they just argued about whether we were too tall for their ceilings.”

“Speaking of which,” Douglas interjected, “avoid the couple in the red minivan if they come back tomorrow. They measured me four times, each time forgetting their ceiling is seven feet, and I’m eight. The husband insisted I’d ‘compress.’ COMPRESS. I’m a Douglas Fir, not a memory foam mattress.”

“At least you’re a reasonable size,” muttered Charlie Brown, a small, sparse tree in the corner that everyone pretended not to notice out of politeness. “I heard a kid point at me today and say, ‘That’s the saddest tree I’ve ever seen.’ His mother said I had ‘character.’ I’m pretty sure that’s human code for ‘pathetic.'”

“You do have character, Charlie,” Virginia Pine said kindly. “Some family will appreciate your… minimalist aesthetic.”

“Today,” announced Noble, clearly wanting to change the subject from Charlie Brown’s prospects, “I learned that humans have very strong opinions about our scent. A woman sniffed me—literally put her nose in my branches and SNIFFED—and declared I ‘didn’t smell Christmassy enough.’ What does that even mean?”

“I got the opposite,” said Balsam. “Someone said I smelled ‘too aggressive.’ How does one smell aggressive? I smell like tree! That’s literally all I can smell like!”

Fraser was getting overwhelmed. “Does anyone actually understand what’s happening to us?”

The lot fell silent for a moment. Finally, Blue Spruce spoke.

“Look, kid. Here’s what we’ve pieced together from years of lots talking to each other. Every winter, humans engage in this ritual where they need a tree inside their home for about a month. During this time, we’re the centerpiece of their celebration. They put wrapped boxes under us—”

“Boxes of what?” Fraser interrupted.

“No one knows. They don’t open them while we’re there. They just… accumulate boxes underneath us like we’re some sort of box-holding apparatus. Then, on a specific morning, they frantically unwrap all the boxes while sitting on the floor around us.”

“That’s… bizarre.”

“Oh, it gets weirder,” Douglas chimed in. “They also hang socks near us. Large, decorative socks. Not on us, mind you, but in our general vicinity. The socks also get filled with items, but smaller items than the boxes.”

“And sometimes,” added Scotch Pine, “they leave out cookies and milk near us at night. But not for them to eat. For someone else. Though I’ve never seen anyone else show up to eat them.”

“Maybe it’s for the trees?” Fraser suggested hopefully.

“Trees don’t eat cookies,” everyone said in unison.

“Right. Of course. I knew that.”

A car pulled into the adjacent parking lot, its headlights sweeping across the tree lot. Everyone went rigid, pretending to be normal, non-talking trees. After it passed, conversation resumed.

“The thing is,” Virginia Pine said thoughtfully, “despite all the weird stuff—the lights, the ornaments, the indoor thing—they seem genuinely happy around us. Families come together, children get excited, even the stressed adults seem to relax a little when they find ‘the perfect tree.'”

“Yesterday,” said Noble, “a little girl hugged me. Just walked up and wrapped her tiny arms around my trunk and said, ‘This one, daddy. This one’s perfect.’ I don’t understand these humans, but that felt… nice.”

“A grandmother cried next to me today,” Balsam admitted quietly. “Happy tears, her daughter said. Something about remembering her late husband who always picked the tree. I may not understand the ritual, but I understand that we’re part of something important to them.”

Fraser considered this. “So we’re not just decorative coat racks for their bizarre winter celebration?”

“Oh, we definitely are that,” Douglas said. “But we’re also… more. We’re memory holders, tradition keepers, gathering points for their families. Even if none of it makes a lick of sense from a botanical perspective.”

“The real question,” Blue Spruce said philosophically, “is what happens after the season. But that’s a mystery for another night.”

Charlie Brown, who’d been quiet for a while, suddenly spoke up. “A family took my brother last year. Scraggly little thing, even worse off than me. You know what they did? They loved him. They put just a few ornaments on him, said he was perfect exactly as he was. The kids named him Steve.”

“Steve?” Fraser asked.

“Steve the Christmas Tree. Humans are terrible at naming things. But the point is, even the saddest among us has a purpose in this weird ritual.”

The lot fell into comfortable silence, each tree contemplating their strange destiny. The bare bulbs hummed overhead, casting shadows that made the trees look taller, fuller, more magical than they did in daylight.

“So,” Fraser finally asked, “any advice for when my turn comes? When some family decides I’m ‘the one’?”

“Stand tall,” said Blue Spruce.

“Don’t drop too many needles during transport,” added Douglas.

“Try not to lean—humans panic when we lean,” Virginia Pine offered.

“And whatever you do,” Noble said seriously, “when they put that star or angel on your top, just… accept it. Fighting it only makes things worse.”

“But most importantly,” Balsam concluded, “remember that for a few weeks, you’re going to be the center of their celebration. You won’t understand it, it won’t make sense why they need a tree inside their climate-controlled house, covered in lights and surrounded by wrapped boxes. But you’ll be part of something that matters to them deeply.”

“Even if they hang pickles on you?” Fraser asked.

“Even then,” everyone agreed.

A distant clock tower chimed midnight. One by one, the trees settled into stillness, preparing for another day of being squeezed, measured, sniffed, and evaluated. Fraser stood a little straighter, trying to look his best for tomorrow’s customers.

He still didn’t understand humans or their bizarre winter tree ritual. But maybe understanding wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was just to stand tall, smell appropriately “Christmassy” (whatever that meant), and be part of something inexplicably important to these strange, sentimental creatures who needed trees in their homes for reasons no tree would ever fully comprehend.

In the morning, Eddie would return, the lot would open, and the humans would come with their measuring tapes and ceiling height debates.

But for now, in the quiet December night, the trees stood together, bound by their shared confusion and their shared purpose, waiting to become someone’s perfect Christmas tree—even if none of them quite understood what that meant.

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Have you ever wondered what Christmas trees would think of our holiday traditions? What do you think they’d be most baffled by—the lights, the ornaments, or the fact that we bring them indoors at all? If trees could actually talk, what questions do you think they’d have for us? Share your thoughts on our bizarre holiday rituals from a tree’s perspective in the comments!