The Hanging of the Lights

It has been a time of learning since moving into my new neighborhood, a few months ago.
And the spirit in this season of grace is competition, I discovered one recent evening when visited by a neighbor.

‘Look at that house across the street,’ he said, pointing to a decorative landscape
of red-and gold-draped evergreens, lighted reindeer and ribbon-wrapped wreaths
festooned with bows that were topped with a big yellow bell.

‘Whatever they put up, we have to put up more,’ the neighbor said.

That was two weeks ago.

I can tell you after some diligent planning and careful execution, today you can see our side of the street from the mountains of Vermont. Not that we’re competitive or anything.

This all began sometime during the long Thanksgiving weekend, with the sun setting early
and the lights of the neighborhood starting to come alive.
Leaf-raked lawns suddenly began sprouting lit designs of horn-blowing angels and reindeer pulling sleds, 4-foot tall candy canes and 6-foot high Santas who wave mechanical arms while singing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’

Impressive stuff.

There are also scores of nativity scenes with mangers stocked with wise men and farm animals, oversized Marys and small plastic Jesuses.
Even bigger is the village skyline whose starry nights were hidden behind rooftop designs of belly-lit Frostys, menacing Yetis and grinning green Grinches.

There was only one thing to do: Get lights. Lots of them.

Sufficient consideration has been given to achieve a look that is bold, yet not brassy.
Elegant and classy, as opposed to trashy or tacky. There is a very thin line that separates the look of a palace from a dump.

I will also tell you there is not enough attention paid to those miniature caution labels.

Hold a strand of lights in your hand, and you will find three warning labels.
The first is stamped with a UL label, printed on silver-reflective paper which makes
reading the words similar to finding a needle on a very large mirror.

The second, with text affixed to a plastic bag boldly labeled SPARE BULB, cautions about how many of these wire gizmos you can plug into one another. (Seven, by the way, is too many).

The third warning sticker is glue-folded onto the wire and is impossible to make any sense of without much manipulative handling of the product at which point you can make out the following: ‘Caution! Handling of this product is known to cause reproductive harm. In the state of California.’

Perfect.

Now some poor newlywed couple trying to start a family in Monterey will forever dwell in a house that knows no children, destined to grow old the rest of their days alone.

Eventually, after a few fits and sparks and electrical alterations, things started shaping up. Lighted ‘nets’ were strung across barren trees. Green wreaths adorned with red ribbon wrappings and gold-leaf tidings adorned a winding wonderland of glittering garland that line
both handrails and illuminate a path from the front stoop right down to
the street.

Across the broad avenue, St. Nicholas recently led a parade of lantern-carrying children to a ceremony lighting the town tree. This was followed by a tradition older than anyone alive
today, as Santa Claus comes zooming down a hill on the back of a fire truck, waving to the crowd.

Bright as it was, it still seemed that something was missing. A neighbor who I did not recognize offered advice.

‘You could use some icicle lights up there,’ came the passer-by’s helpful suggestion.
‘Those would work like a charm,’ he said, although secretly I wondered whether he was from across the street and trying to trick me into screwing up.

I may be new in the neighborhood, but I’ve been around the block a few times.

by Thomas Dimopoulos
published in The Saratogian