Editor’s Note: In an effort to promote an environmentally friendly holiday season, Style columnist Emmet Meara has chosen to recycle his thoughts on Christmas trees, in a column that first ran on Dec. 19, 1980.

Down with Christmas trees.

I mean, come on. It’s barbaric, expensive, messy and dangerous. You have to take a perfectly good Sunday afternoon (football, you know) and drive about 10 miles to stand around in some guy’s driveway freezing to death while the little woman tries to make up her mind. (“That one’s too big. There’s a missing spot in that one. That one’s too green.”)

It’s insanity. One guy in Lincolnville walked all the way past some perfectly good trees to have the adventure of cutting his own. He came back 15 minutes later with the worst tree in the lot. But he looked proud. Now he could bore everyone with his cut-it-myself stories. Probably a Massachusetts gypsy.

Then you jam the darn thing into the back of the car. You know when you do it that it will come out a lot harder than it went in. And you know that those cursed needles will be all over the back of the car on July Fourth – and long after.

Whoever cuts the trees in the field is one of the all-time sickos. You’d think he would cut them off nice and square. Never. Some people may know where the saw is when they get home with the tree. Others have to organize the whole tribe and put out an all-points bulletin for the rusting implement. After the first fight of what will be a long day, the saw is found. Then the sawdust is on the living room rug. (“You’d think it’s going to be cut outside? It’s cold out there.”)

Last year had to be the all-timer. An alleged friend offered (with a straight face) to give us a tree from his back acres up on the ridge in Union. Save eight bucks, right? You may not know it, but there is one heck of a difference in Christmas trees. I did not know that last year. I do now. It seems that ol’ Hubbard donated one of the spruce variety. To say that the tree shed needles is to say that bears relieve themselves in the woods.

The noise of this tree shedding on the presents actually drowned out the audio of the television. When you played the stereo, it shed in time with the music. Would I tell a lie? We had to sweep off the presents before we opened them. We had to shovel the rug.

How old are you? How many trees have you put up in your lifetime? Here is the tough one. Have you ever, and I mean one single time, ever, put up a tree without a hellacious fight, involving all hands? I know the Christmas cards show the family (the father always has the pipe) around the tree, with everyone smiling and all. The scene even features a yapping dog. Can’t have a home without a pet, you know.

If you have lived through one of those Hallmark card scenes, you are doing better than I. Every time that green bush has been dragged into the house, it has been the signal for a beaut – one of the best ones ever. There is always a fight over who puts the star on the top of the tree, right? Someone wants to put the red bulbs on top. Someone else wants green.

Sunday was a corker. After the annual fights and bickering, the tree was up (with about 30 percent efficiency on the bulbs) and as a reward, it was time to go out for dinner (plastic money, of course). Guess where the tree was when we came home? Guess where the lights were? Guess how many of the legs on the $1.69 tree stand were bent?

There is no rational discussion around a Christmas tree raising. There is argument, raised constantly in noise level. Inevitably, there is a child pounding up the stairs, crying. If there is no child, there is someone sitting in the kitchen definitely pouting and probably drinking.

But the very worst is that tinsel.

When and if the atomic wars come, the sole item to survive the holocaust will be the dreaded silver icicle. The man who cuts the Christmas tree has a cousin in the icicle game. I know he does.

The product is ingeniously designed to resist the tree while clinging tenaciously to the rug, couch or especially grass (on the way out, you know). I know that if you looked carefully under the porch that you could find some icicle junk from last year. That’s if you really want to.

I know, you put the lights away carefully last year and they all worked. You put them in the hall closet in an old toy box. No one has touched them. I mean, do you want the Christmas lights for something in August? But when you take them out, a good 47 percent of them won’t work. Do light bulbs have heart attacks? What happened in those dark closets for the other 11 months of the year?

I am a sucker. Let’s get that straight right away. I went for the Blinky Twinky (or something like that) light bulbs. I thought they were a heck of an idea – until I got to the cash register. A buck eighty-nine for four dinky light bulbs. But they blink, you know. You may have the nerve to tell the clerk to forget it when you see the price. But carols were playing over the Muzak and someone who looks like my grandmother was behind me. What was I going to say? “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s too much to pay for a Christmas decoration.”

I paid.

Now, the lights are up and almost all of them work. Some of them even blink. So it’s pretty. Try to lie in bed at night for the next two weeks and not think about that 7-foot fire hazard downstairs. Did anyone put water in it this week? This month? Did anyone unplug the thing before we went to bed?

Then comes Argument II, regarding when the tree comes down. I myself favor, oh, about 10 p.m. on Dec. 25. Others who shall remain nameless prefer the afternoon of June 5. (“It looks so pretty. Let’s leave it up awhile.”) Of course, there are two removal dates. One is when the tree goes out the front door. The second is then it is dragged out of the barn, icicles and all.

When it finally comes to dump day, the pyromaniac in me insists that the tree be deposited directly on the flames. That is always a thrill. Then, you have to remind yourself that this 7-foot torch has been in your living room for the last few weeks. It is like decorating gasoline-soaked rags in your hearth, as far as I’m concerned.

You never asked, right?

Think about it.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmet

meara@msn.com