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It had been a good Christmas tree as artificial ones go, and for many holidays it glistened with lights and ornaments in the East Mountain home of Carol Smith.

But Smith's nest was empty now, and such a large tree and so many lights weren't necessary anymore.

The tree had more good years ahead, though, and Smith thought if she could just find the right family, the right children to appreciate the grandeur strong in its branches, she would be willing to part with her tree of memories.

"It is a nice-looking tree, and we are somewhat sentimental about it, but it takes some time to get it set up, get the branches properly spread out, and get the lights strung," she said. "In short, it needs a lot of little hands to bring out its best Christmas spirit."

Did I know anyone who could use her tree, she asked in an e-mail.

Well, no, I didn't. But I told her I would ask around.

Weeks passed with no taker. That surprised me, but maybe even the neediest family had no use for a used tree.

Christmas trees are not Christmas presents, not the Christmas turkey or ham or bizcochito. They don't keep one warm or fed or busy for hours on Christmas morning.

But trees have a magic to them, and the Christmas season only ever begins when the tree goes up.

My fondest memories of Christmas as a child was not the day itself but the evening my father hauled down a large, battered cardboard box from some obscure corner of the closet.

The box contained dozens of sparkly aluminum branches, each individually packed in tubes of brown paper.

They came in different sizes marked by colored dots at the end of each frond. The shorter ones went in first at the top of a trunk filled with holes.

It seemed to take hours to put that tree together, hours to place those brittle paper sheaths gently back into the box at season's end.

As the years passed, each glittery frond grew scruffy and worn like an old duster or the outstretched neck of an ostrich. And, yes, we had long grown weary of my father's insistence on using only pink, round ornaments.

But viewed collectively, the tree every year never disappointed. The fronds unified and glittered as they always had, and the pink baubles seemed absolutely perfect.

It was still a beautiful tree. It was our tree.

We had made it ours through the ritual of creating this metal masterpiece year after year, the same way each time. Small fronds and ornaments first from the top, larger ones last.

I suspected Smith's tree had enjoyed a similar annual rite. But where I could never have imagined giving away something so personal, Smith had sought out a new family so that it could begin a tree ritual all its own.

Eventually, we found that family. A social worker with the state Children, Youth and Families Department had heard through a series of e-mails that I knew of a tree.

The family members were a mother and father and four children, ages 3 to 14. They were trying hard to stay together, the social worker told me, and it wasn't always easy, because the older three children had multiple mental health issues.

"There are some tough times but Mom and Dad are really working to provide the best they can," she said.

The social worker had also lined up a sponsor family to provide them with the essential Christmas cheer — the gifts, the stockings, the feast, the cookies. All they had needed was a tree.

Smith was elated.

Earlier this month, she packed up her old tree and several strings of lights and dropped them off with the social worker to deliver to the tree's new owners.

It was a simple gesture between strangers, about a simple tree that was maybe not so simple after all.

I imagine now a home that looks like Christmas and a tree that looks like home.