Let There Be Light

 

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.