I made my holiday trip to The Coney Tree on Saturday.

Of course, it’s not just about the tree. Nor the hot dogs. Nor burgers.

Sure, all of those are great.

But what matters is the entire experience.

A visit to a coal region Coney Island is a much welcomed taste of nostalgia.

It’s a step back to the 1920s when a patron was welcomed not merely as a customer but a friend.

Everyone who walks through the door at Shamokin Coney Island is greeted that way.

“People come from all over,” says cook Sharon Wichurowski.

She’s been smiling at guests and dishing out chili dogs and burgers for 52 years.

It just so happens she also has a knack for positioning holiday lights on a Yule tree standing 18 feet high.

The Coney Tree is special, just like the eatery.

It’s hand-picked every year by restaurant owner Billy Bacas. He knows how to defy the norm in wonderful ways.

For instance, he always selects an evergreen that’s positively too big. And then he and Sharon work their magic to create a showpiece.

Everyone asks: “How did you get it in here?”

The answer: “It’s tied tightly, allowing us to squeeze it through the front door.”

After the holiday, they cut off branches and remove the tree piece by piece.

But for seven weeks or so, the dazzling tree and friendly atmosphere draw visitors from far and wide.

Many are Baby Boomers who want to relive a special part of their past.

They bring children and grandchildren to introduce them to a part of small town American life slipping from our grasp.

I feel the same way. I’m hooked. Just like a candy cane.

Each year I make a 75-mile round-trip pilgrimage to The Coney Tree. There, I place the final ornament as high as I can reach.

Somehow that gesture sets the tone for the holiday.

Of course, I missed out during the pandemic. Things changed for a while. But normalcy has returned.

So I spent Saturday enjoying Coal Region hospitality set within irreplaceable, century-old aura.

Shamokin Coney is what we’d call an anachronism. It exists far removed from its time period and is still run the old-fashioned way.

It’s not about an elaborate business plan, or spreadsheets, or inventory lists.

Instead, things are done by feel. By gut instinct.

“I can tell if we need to order supplies just by looking in the case,” says Billy, a bachelor.

He inherited the operation; handed down from his grandparents to his parents. All are now gone.

But Billy is more than capable of carrying the torch.

Naturally, it’s a sentimental job.

“I grew up with this place. This is all I ever knew,” he says with conviction.

His passion for the business is reflected in his dark eyes and light spirit.

The Coney unites us. A unique experience where we sit shoulder-to-shoulder with friends and neighbors.

Where small talk and friendly smiles are as much a part of the fare as mustard and onions.

But places such as this are fading. I’ve noticed the trend.

I grew up in Tamaqua where there once was a busy Coney. Plus a venerable Texas Lunch. And even a Chili Dog, too. Sadly, all three vanished.

Still, the experience is branded into the consciousness.

If you live in Pennsylvania, you realize there’s something special about a doggie-and-burger joint.

The Coney experience is part of our identity.

You’ve undoubtedly done it. Maybe you still do. Maybe it’s Abe’s, or Yocco’s, or Jimmy’s Quick Lunch.

Chili dog eateries unite us in a special way. A shared bond.

We need to celebrate that bond around the holidays and every day.

A gift like that is too important to lose.