The late
autumn afternoon was damp and gray. The sun remained buried beneath
layers of quilted clouds that dove earthward and released a cold mist. I
stood on the pale gold grass of the front yard, a gentle, yet cold breeze
whipping through the naked trees. At my feet were six boxes of string
lights and some extension cords. In my hand was a brisk seasonal ale. I
stood contemplating what I’d gotten myself into.
For the past fourteen months domestication and cohabitation
had been my Jericho Road. The next step was to join the ranks of festive
homeowners up and down the block and celebrate the season. To bring light
to the long dark nights, to add our own color and illumination to the
multi-colored lights, snowflakes and inflatable snowmen, Santas, and reindeer.
My wife buys
shit. Her knack for accumulating material items is unparalleled. In her
defense, during our courtship she did list shopping among her favorite
pastimes. On occasion when she treats currency like ammunition for a
confetti cannon, she reminds me that I was given fair warning long before
taking delivery.
The day after our first Christmas as a married couple, she
went shopping, intent on gobbling up post-holiday bargains. We were in a
reasonably sized apartment at the time, but an apartment nonetheless. It
had a finite capacity for holiday décor. After several hours she returned
with a carload of Christmas decorations that I would be tasked with storing.
“What could you possibly do with all this stuff?” I asked.
“Some day,” she said with a gleam in her brown eyes, “we’ll
have a house.”
I appreciated her optimism but had trouble justifying
having outdoor lights and mantel pieces when we had neither a yard nor a
fireplace.
Her statement proved prophetic a mere six months later
however when a rent increase and low interest rates made buying a house our
best option. A turbulent first winter left no time or interest in
Christmas lights, but for our second holiday season, my wife transformed our
house into a veritable winter wonderland. When she was done, but one thing was
missing. An obvious lack of ambiance on the exterior.
My wife wasn’t looking for an uber-obnoxious, grid-taxing
Griswold display, just something simple to make the outdoors a touch more
festive and inviting. A counterbalance to our festively decked
halls. To this end, she presented me with a half dozen boxes of clear
icicle lights and extension cords that she'd bought two Christmases prior.
The afternoon was much better suited for watching football
on television, but after a beer and some consideration, I’d convinced myself
that I could actually knock the project out with relative ease and in short
order.
My aluminum extension ladder rested in the damp
mulch-covered soil of the flowerbed, stretching across the shrubs and extending
past the roof line, leaning against the guttering. I took a long pull
from my beer bottle and started climbing.
When I was young and would think of marriage, I found
myself attracted to the more mundane aspects. I had visions of working in
the yard, cleaning out the attic, or grilling steaks on the patio of my marital
home.
Unfortunately, like many common household skills, I had no
pedigree for holiday light display. Not once did my childhood home boast
more than the Christmas tree and carefully hung stockings. The notion of
outdoor lights was a non-starter for my father who never even allowed it the
courtesy of a “maybe next year.” I was justifiably shocked when as an
adult I dropped by his house during the dark comedy mini-series that was his
final marriage to find Christmas lights attached to the house.
At first I thought it had to be a mistake, but upon closer
inspection, the handiwork was clearly that of my dad--crooked strands of indoor
lights attached to the outer trim by whatever means was readily available,
including Scotch tape, thumb tacks and standard Swingline staples.
I didn’t feel slighted. I could have lived with the
idea of my dad turning a new leaf and trying to make up for lost time with a
new family. However, I knew that wasn’t the case. I was certain
that key terms of the arrangement were duress and threats. In response, he’d
created a fire hazard. Perhaps by design. I pretended not to
notice.
.
I had roughly four hours to complete the project before
nightfall. Fortunately, I had two things providing a significant
advantage. The lights were new. Factory packaged and neatly wound
without dead or missing bulbs. Also, our house came with plastic clips
below the roof line that were perfect for attaching string lights. This was as
close to plug and play as I could hope for.
With these advantages, the project zipped along, save for
my short arms that required me to reposition the ladder every three feet.
I was encouraged by my progress and was no longer dreading the chore when I
sliced my finger on a guttering downspout.
My cold, brittle finger was an easy mark for the sharp
aluminum, drawing lobster red blood in a steady stream, dripping on the lights
and leaving ghoulish stains on the white guttering.
The wound was substantial enough to interrupt progress,
forcing me down to seek out our mix and match first aid kit. I bandaged
my finger and cracked another ale. The hoppy elixir not only provided
instant relief from the cut, but also dispatched much needed warmth to my
extremities, overall doing for me what spinach did for Popeye. My fingers
and toes, frosty moments ago, were now warm and limber. Reinvigorated, I
was back on the ladder with a sense of purpose.
This new enthusiasm carried me around the house with a
fresh efficiency. I would hang a section of lights, slide down the
ladder, move to the next position and repeat the process. With the lights
in place, all that was left was to plug in the extension cord and admire the
results. I plugged my cord in in the garage and fed it beneath the
overhead door to where the last strand of lights hung, thirsting for
electricity in order to do what they were made for.
A tingle of anticipation danced in my stomach while a drum
roll played in my head. By that time it was nearly dark and the effect of
the lights would be immediate. I grabbed the two ends and connected them
with an eager smile.
Nothing.
There are times in my life when a setback like this would
have been met with a truculent outburst. This time, I maintained a steely
resolve. I’d come this far; success was nigh. By their very nature string
lights are fickle, and the slightest incongruity can derail the entire train.
With yet another ale, I contemplated my situation and
realized that an electrical system installed during the Eisenhower
administration may not be suited to support six strands of lights on one
outlet. I went back outside and made a quick adjustment. This time
when the cords connected there was light--bright, white, brilliant light that
brought instant illumination to the cold, gray dusk.
I put away my tools and went inside for a hot shower.
Wrapped in a towel, I glanced out the window to check my lights only to find
they had gone out again. By that time it was dark, and the logical thing
would’ve been to wait until morning.
An odd aspect of my relationship with alcohol is that it
often makes me ambitious. I got dressed, pulled out my ladder and
readjusted the circuit load. Fifteen minutes later, the lights were back
on, and this time they stayed on.
The cold night sky allowed my lights their full
effect. I stood in the yard and looked on, suitably impressed. I
stepped back and looked again before moving to the street for a broader
perspective. Looking disturbingly suburban in a Banana Republic cashmere
pullover and Land’s Deck shoes, I sipped my beer and basked not only in the
soft white lights but also in the admiration of neighbors who had come out from
up and down the block to compliment my display.
Later, my wife returned home from running errands to find
the exterior of our house fully illuminated. Also pleased with the
finished product, she stood at my side and looked on admiringly. The
crisp night air, the glowing lights, and potent seasonal ale had succeeded
where Black Friday and countless inane television ads had failed. I felt
the Christmas Spirit, even if only for a few fleeting moments.
Admittedly I felt a rarefied sense of self
satisfaction. At that moment, I placed might light display on the mantel
alongside life’s other significant accomplishments. Earned a college
degree. Got married. Bought a house. Scored the winning goal
in a championship hockey game. With a single act, I’d crossed the
threshold into maturity--or at least adulthood.
“Can you help unload the car?” asked my wife.
She’d been out buying more shit.
