Meet "Ollie," our olive tree, who will soon be dressed for Christmas with baubles, ribbons and warm white lights. Discover the story behind this unique Christmas tree in today's post. Voici "Ollie," notre olivier, qui sera bientôt paré pour Noël avec des boules, des rubans, et des lumières blanches chaudes. Découvrez l'histoire de cet arbre de Noël unique dans le billet d'aujourd'hui.

L'ARBRE DE NOËL = Christmas tree (m)

PRONUNCIATION: [lar-bruh duh no-el]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
Autrefois, l'arbre de Noël était souvent un olivier, avant que le sapin de Noël ne devienne plus populaire. (In the past, the Christmas tree was often an olive tree, before the fir tree became more popular.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

On our way to walk Ricci on the beach, I paused at our neighborhood library—an old, beat-up telephone booth with its own certain charm—to check out the latest arrivals. There, perched atop a heap of books, was a familiar cover: Almanach Provençal 2008. I’d bought a copy years ago for its delightful watercolors and snippets of French customs, and here it was again, like an old friend rediscovered.

Entering the crowded cabine téléphonique, I picked up the book and opened it, eager to learn a few cultural insights for the French holidays. Flipping to the first week of December, a whimsical watercolor of an unusual Christmas tree caught my eye. The caption read: “…the beautiful potted olive tree is brought inside to become this year’s Provençal Christmas tree…” (“…on rentrera dans la maison le bel olivier en pot. Ce sera cette année notre sapin de Noël provençal…”).

Studying the illustration of the arbre de noël, with its simple, delicate embellishments, I was instantly charmed. The olive tree, with its bowl-like shape, slender trunk, and blue-green branches, was more than endearing—it was rich with meaning…

The Christmas tree hasn’t always been a fir. In the Mediterranean, people once decorated olive trees for the holidays. With its evergreen leaves, the olive tree evokes Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and the nearby Mount of Olives. Its branches, a universal symbol of peace, make it a deeply meaningful choice for Christmas.

Tiens! L’olivier! What a refreshing change from the usual. And to my relief, there’d be no need to climb a ladder to fetch our artificial tree from storage. No more wrestling with wiry branches that needed unfurling or debating over who would help decorate this year.

With Max away in Montreal for his work in the wine business, Jackie leaving school and at a crossroads once again, and Jean-Marc preparing for his next adventure—soon to be making wine in Argentina—no one was around to assist. But the exotic simplicity of an olive tree felt like decoration enough. I could already picture it: a few ornaments, warm white lights, a crisp ribbon around the trunk, and a golden star to crown this uncelebrated savior of a Christmas tree.

Ça y est! This year’s tree was practically chosen. All we needed now was to find it.

At our local pépinière, a young autistic man was carefully watering some poinsettias—les étoiles de noël (“Christmas stars” in French). “Can you help us with an olivier?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, growing nervous. After some encouragement, he led us past rows of scentless sapins, through a back door, and paused at a quiet corner. There, we saw three types of olive trees: tiny potted ones (which I imagined disappearing behind a pile of wrapped presents), tall scraggly ones (too sparse for ornaments), and, finally, a last possibility—ornamental trees, similar to bonsais but much taller. They had a tall price tag too!

One in particular stood out. Among all its neatly sculpted rameaux, one branch was bent back awkwardly toward the center. “Merci!” I said. “Je vais réfléchir.” But I had already made up my mind—this perfectly imperfect tree was parfait for our family. And, with a bit of girl math, I could almost justify the cost of this exotic olive tree taillé en nuage.

“Yes, thank you very much. You’ve been a great help,” Jean-Marc added. Only then did the young man return to his watering, standing a little taller, his confidence visibly blooming.

Another man came over to help carry the olive tree to our Jimny. Hearing his southern accent, I asked, “Do you know about the tradition of using olive trees as sapins de Noël?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ah, mais oui! C’était d’avant, ça—before we started importing Christmas trees… and Coca-Cola.” His voice carried that unmistakable Provençal rhythm, the words rolling out like a song.

It took one more colleague to help lift the olive tree into the back of our little jeep, with Jean-Marc and me pulling vigorously from the front. But our efforts were halted when the tree got stuck halfway in. Just when it seemed we would break those cloud-shaped branches with our forcing…whoosh!…our leafy prize finally slid all the way in. There wasn’t much room left in the passenger seat, but I managed to scooch in among the fragrant branches for the short ride back.

Once home, Jean-Marc and I lugged the tree into the house. With a bit of teamwork and loads of enthusiasm, we set it above the buffet. I loved seeing my husband fuss with its positioning, a small gesture that reassured me he valued the tree as much as I did, even though it might have seemed like a spontaneous buy. Quietly, we stepped back to admire this year’s arbre de Noël. It was taller than expected, its leafy branches brushing the iron beam above. And, like so many of our previous Christmas trees, it was lopsided. But that didn’t matter—I couldn’t wait to show it off to Mom, our resident art director.

“It’s fabulous!” Jules said, époustouflée. “You must keep it here year round!”
When I shared the pépinière's warning that the olive tree wouldn’t survive inside, Mom wasn’t fazed. “After Christmas, you can put it in the garden and bring it in on weekends. Too bad it wasn’t here for your dinner party last night! Why don’t you invite everybody back?”

Just when I began fretting about more guests, Mom diffused any hostessing angst by changing the topic. “What will you name it?” she inquired. This got me smiling, for while I had resorted to using girl math to justify its purchase, Mom was already a step ahead, making our olive tree priceless by adopting it.

“Voyons voir…. Let's see… How about Olivier? It’s French for olive tree.”

“Ollie it is!” Mom declared, baptizing the newest member of our family. Like the rest of us, Ollie would soon be gussied up in a sparkly something, ready to put on her best for the upcoming souper de Noël.

That reminds me… one more tradition the Provençal Almanach mentions is le pompe à l’huile, the olive oil cake—Ollie’s favorite dessert, I’m guessing. It’s one of the Treize Desserts of a Provençal Christmas, symbolizing Christ and the Apostles. After all this time, you’d think I’d know more about that, but I have never settled down enough to grasp its meaning. Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard. Perhaps I’ll start by making one this year—and leave the Apôtres for later….

🫒🫒🫒

COMMENTS
Thank you for your helpful corrections and for sharing your stories. What are your plans for the holidays? What do you like to eat? Do you put up a tree? Click here to comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce all the vocabulary below

L’arbre de Noël (m) = Christmas Tree

l'almanach provençal (m) = Provençal almanac

la cabine téléphonique = telephone booth

Tiens! L’olivier =  Hey! The Olive Tree!

Ça y est = That’s it!

la pépinière = nursery

les étoiles (f) de noël = Christmas stars, poinsettias 

l'olivier = olive tree

le sapin = fir tree

le rameau = branch

merci = thank you

je vais réfléchir = I'm going to think about it

parfait = perfect

la taille en nuage = cloud pruning

le sapin de Noël = Christmas tree

Ah, mais oui! = yes, of course

C’était d’avant, ça = that was from olden days

époustouflé(e) = amazed

voyons voir = let's see

le souper de Noël = Christmas dinner

le pompe à l'huile = olive oil cake

les Treize Desserts = Thirteen Desserts

Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard = That goes to show, it’s never too late

l’Apôtre = the Apostle

A gâteau aux marrons is a flat chestnut cake. You might like this 3-ingredient dessert, recipe here. (Pictured: My mom's fish painting and some flowering rosemary on the cake)

THANKS/REMERCIEMENTS 
With heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their thoughtful donations to this blog, along with the encouraging notes!

Ron F.
Jackie C.
Diane H.
Linda H.
Louise H.
Diane C.C.
Carmen C.
Suzanne D.

Happy holidays! —Diane

Thank you for sharing your French experience with all of us who follow you. –Ron

Grateful for your inspirational writings, and all my trips to France that bring me joy! Merci! –Linda

I always look forward to reading your journal! Merci for the lovely family story and the delectable ambiance and flavor of French culture!!! Happy Holidays! —Jackie

Thank you for enriching my life by sharing yours. You and your family are in my prayers always. You are a blessing. Keep writing : ) —Carmen

 

Ricci galloping on the beach