I have never roasted chestnuts on an open fire. I have never dashed through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh, jingling all the way.

And I have never decked my halls with boughs of holly.

I’ve still had myself a merry little Christmas, but that hasn’t stopped me from working toward one not-so-lofty goal.

Way up back, tucked into a little corner next to my gardening shed, there grows a pair of hollies so sprightly that one cannot help but dream of Christmas future filled with shiny red berries and glossy green leaves.

Much to my delight, I’ve found that even in the frigid depths of Maine, some members of the Ilex genus can grow. I planted my two bushes, one male and one female, back in the early ’90s.

Calling them bushes then was a kindness; twig was more accurate. They struggled at first, and then the female holly planted its feet and began to put off new branches. The male was more recalcitrant, struggling to keep its leaves. But I never could really say the two were thriving. They just existed.

It would seem things have taken a turn for the better over the past couple of years.

Perhaps it’s because of my wistful gaze willing them to do something every time my path took me near. Or maybe it’s because I finally plotted and planted a garden in front of my shed this spring, putting the hollies on notice that they were the backdrop – or would be if they grew higher than my kneecap.

In this season, I like to think my hollies are gaining ground because they have a long tradition to uphold.

Holly is a great deal more than just a jolly little Christmas plant. There are, of course, the religious symbols associated with holly, its red berries representing Christ’s blood and the thorny leaves Christ’s crown of thorns. Before Christianity, however, holly was a sacred plant used by the Romans during their Saturnalia, a winter solstice festival for Saturn, the mythological god of agriculture.

Over the centuries, holly’s mythical powers ranged from deterring everything from witches to the evil eye to lightning. It was the “Holy Tree” for medieval monks, with legend sprouting holly plants from the footsteps of Christ when he walked the Earth.

On the botanical side, fossilized pollen from holly has been discovered on most continents. The oldest is dated to the early Cretaceous period (138 million years ago, give or take a few dozen decades) of southeastern Australia. A few million more years after that, holly pollen from that period was found in California, Egypt and Gabon. South America and Europe weighed in 70 million years later with their own fossil pollen from the Paleocene Epoch.

Despite the existence of more

than 400 species of holly trees, shrubs and climbers, holly is not an easy plant to grow in our area of the world because of its lack of cold-hardiness. Only a handful of the varieties I’ve seen are hardy to Zone 5, although my microclimate is easily Zone 4 on good winter days and Zone 3 on the worst winter nights. While my hollies grow in a sheltered area, they are far removed from the house and any extra warmth that might provide.

I’m not known for coddling plants and the hollies are no exception. Fortunately, holly requires little. Full sun is good, although partial shade (my situation) is acceptable. The planting site should be well-drained but moist and humus-rich.

Other than that, a gardener needn’t do much else. Sure, you can prune when the plants are young to shape them. Mature specimen plants can be trimmed in summer and hedges can be clipped in the spring.

If you’re thinking to save money by propagating your own hedge, you could try planting seeds, but germination can take two or three years. I have no idea how one keeps track of watering, where the seeds are planted or even what the sprout looks like so you don’t actually yank it out of the ground after a three-year wait.

What a hideous thought.

The better method would be to take cuttings in summer or early autumn. Then you at least have a twig to appreciate.

By now, you’ve probably noticed that I haven’t named my two holly bushes. I’m ashamed to admit to that common gardener mistake: I failed to label them, thinking I’d remember such a momentous occasion. Well, I have those momentous occasions nearly every year when I add another longed-for gem to the yard.

I don’t write those down either.

Oddly enough, the names of my holly plants don’t matter to me. It is simply holly. But just because I could, I’ve determined that it is probably one of two varieties, both of which are hardy to Zone 5. At first I thought they might be Ilex x meserveae ‘Blue Princess’ and `Blue Prince.’ But the picture of `Blue Princess’ had me shaking my head.

Then I took a good look at I. `China Girl’ and `China Boy’ and decided I had a winner. This holly is a cross between I. cornuta (Chinese holly) and I. rugosa and can grow about 10 feet tall and wide. The big clue was in how the leaves look. My plant’s leaf spines curve downward. True for ‘China Girl’ and not for ‘Blue Princess.’

All that really matters to me is that the plants keep growing little by little, blossoming more and more delicate white flowers each year, and producing cluster after cluster of red berries.

Then some white Christmas in another decade or two, I can deck the halls with my own holly.

Janine Pineo is a NEWS copy editor.