Holiday Light -- The Real Story Behind Christmas Lights

I just finished putting up this year's rendition of our Christmas lights. It made me think of a piece I wrote for a local paper several years ago…

(To listen to this story, click on the photo above.)

Ode to Dad (first stanza)

The night was dark,

The ladder leaned against the house askew,

Along the rooftop a shadowy figure flew.

A spark was seen,

A scream was heard,

And Dad was zapped 

While installing Santa's plastic herd.

The Holidays are upon us. That magnificent season that brings with it cool days, cold nights and a renewed sense of fellowship. The season that bears the holy day when we remember a baby boy who was born among farm animals. His first crib, a manger. Indeed, a special time. 

Newton asserted that for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction. Much the same is true of the Holidays. While above the herald angels tune their heavenly voices, and the cherubs polish their celestial trumpets, the dads of Kimball Ridge are busy hauling out and dusting off the electric hardware. It's time.

Yes, Virginia, as sure as there's a Santa Claus, the Holidays bring out in men a primal urge to create with electricity and plastic. Their wives are quick to point out that boys never really put away their toys -- they simply trade them in. They upgrade.

At age 5 Johnny was content with electric trains and building erector-set cities complete with stoplights. But as an adult, John needs much more to pacify his creative urges. What's he need? To quote TV's Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, he needs more power!

He needs electricity. He needs as many watts per square foot as city code inspectors will allow. He's a confused craftsman awash in testosterone and ohms. Stand back! Dad's creating a masterpiece of electric mayhem.

"Bring it on kids! Wise men, over there. Santa goes on the roof. Nativity set, next to the big bush."

There are no rules about mixed metaphors. Baby Jesus ends up next to Frosty the Snowman every year. Some things, happily, never change. Tacky? Probably. Tradition? Definitely.

The bigger and bolder the better. There's only one rule -- a credo really -- passed down from generation to generation: "Volts, fry. Amps, die."

The happy thing, wives tell you, is that as certain as the annual goose migration and deer rut come to an end, so too ends the male rush to create something that would make Clark Griswold cry frozen tears of joy. 

It ends when Dad suddenly realizes that at some point somebody's got to take all that stuff down, eventually.

But before the urge completely dies, Dad is given orders to post the neighborhood ornament along the street. He dutifully complies. Hey, it's one last chance to plug something in.

As he walks back from the curb he sees a street lined with identical ornaments. An electrified symbol of goodwill and neighborhood unity. A testimonial to the good taste and organizational skills of the neighborhood moms. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction.

Dads...moms. Blinking neon elves...tasteful angel. Plastic dogs barking Christmas carols...nativity scene. Balance. 

All is right with the world this Holiday season.

Ode to Dad (final stanza)

The lights are on,

The snow's aglow,

And Dad's merrily humming, "Ho, ho, ho."

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