Clark Griswold vs. Christmas
Strings of Christmas lights are strewn across the lawn. The two reindeer, snowman and horn-playing angel are on the sideline, waiting to be put in the game. The house is stark, asking for something to illuminate its lines and angles during the season. My father, brother and I stand at the ready, looking over the lights and coming up with a game plan suitable for such a project. There are three different ideas floating around.
“Someone is going home with their feelings hurt today,” says my brother, barely getting the words around the fat stogie that is jammed in between his teeth.
It is about 11:30 a.m. This is not a big house at all, and I am not going to go Griswold and put 25,000 lights on every inch of the roof, front and beyond. We are talking about six strands, half-dozen net lights for the shrubs, the angel, snowman and reindeer.
At around 12:15 p.m., the first fuse blows. I quickly find the offending net bulb and change the tiny fuse in the incredibly cheap lights.
There is a debate worthy of the McLaughlin Group over which ladder to use. Dad suggests the 10-foot, but I have brought over the extension ladder. My brother is not OK with the placement of the ladder. I protest, and he dares me to climb it at the angle it sits.
“I’m afraid,” I admit.
Once the ladder is better, or properly, positioned, the lights begin to go up on the eaves of the house. There are small portions of lights not working. Upon examination, it is clear that someone, most likely me, has stepped on some.
“Crushed,” my father moans. My brother and I laugh. Dad wisely decides to leave the house to avoid any more calamity.
The third fuse blows at around 2 p.m. It is found, on the same set of net lights, and replaced. I also replace a bulb, and while doing so stab my hand with the tiny wires that are part of these crappy, disposable sub-par lights.
My brother is on the ladder, and he calls me over. I head his way, avoiding stepping on a strand that is laid out, but tripping on the one I am carrying. He points to a dead sparrow wedged between the house and the shutter. The shutters not being real, the poor little guy got trapped and never made it out. We try to dislodge it. No good. The bird will haunt our dreams.
Another fuse blows. My last nerve is now exposed, waving in the breeze. We completely re-do the lights on the big shrub, changing the fuse once again. We run an extra line so as not to overload the crummy fuses in the lights.
My brother says he likes the big lights, the bulbs, like my father does and says they remind him of our grandfather, who left us more than a decade ago. We remember the decorations that were in my grandparent’s house, especially these creepy little elves that seemed to climb the door jamb. We share a moment of remembrance and sadness. I think of Clark Griswold, watching old home movies in his attic throughtears in Christmas Vacation.
The reindeer are set up now, about 15 feet from the house. We put them on some fresh branches cut from the huge pine tree that is ruining my roof. I rub the lump on my head I got that day from said tree, which seems to injure me and anyone else it gets a chance to hurt.
I have a quick conversation with my neighbor, a guy who does everything around his house. As we speak, I see the lights go out again. My neighbor points out that we need more extension cords so we don’t overload the fuses. I fix it again, and use another cord.
About 15 minutes later, they go out again. I snap, pick up a broom and beat the lawn into submission before throwing the broom into the driveway. My brother is laughing at my freak out. I fix it, use a new net, new cords—and it works. An hour later, they are still on.
It is dark, and we step back and admire. There are some spots that need some enhancement, but I like it. It looks nice.
It looks like Christmas.
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