December 3, 2003
Christmas Chores

Chores.  Christmas chores.  When the over fifty set contemplates Christmas, the visions of sugarplums that dance in their heads run toward holiday open houses, egg nog with really yummy stuff blended in, re runs of the Lawrence Welk Christmas specials on PBS (“oh look dear the lovely little Lennon Sisters are singing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem”) and TV commercials with Santa sledding the snow covered hills on a Norelco automatic shaver.  But just as sure as there is Santa at Christmas one also must deal with Christmas chores.

     Starting with the lights on the house.  Now I realize companies exist, who for a fee, specialize in making your home the “light” of the neighborhood.   Were the decision mine and mine alone I’d gladly write the check and say, “Boys, string ‘em up.”  But is anything ever that easy when you’re married? Of course not.  Wifely dictates demand my choosing between the lawn and Christmas. “Pick one or the other” I’ve been told on more than one occasion, meaning a choice must be made between either a yard service or a professional Christmas light putter-upper, taker-downer or whatever it is people who do that sort of thing call themselves.  Now even though our lawn has the approximate square footage of a postage stamp, teeny-tiny yards still require a weekly manicure over six months of the year.  But only once a year is it required yours truly make the always futile attempt to put an evening glow on the house.  Illuminating the “home twenty” is an effort by free men everywhere to not only further the Christmas Spirit worldwide but also avoid being the only house for miles in any direction sitting night after night, listless and lightless in the dark.  To have the only unlit manse in the neighborhood is the modern day equivalent of announcing, “We have no idea where Bob Cratchett and the children are today but Scrooge lives here.”

      All this peer and spousal pressure, the not wanting to give the appearance of being the “dark side” of Christmas and at the same time desiring to take the “thrifty” approach causes me to opt for “do-it yourself” Christmas lighting.  “Do-it yourself” sounds so much better than “sad-ass” but the second description certainly comes closer to the truth.

    A significant part of the problem, disregarding innate laziness, is my being extremely uncomfortable anytime the world finds my body more than 18 inches off the ground.  Kneeling on the garage roof while leaning over the edge in an attempt to clip icicle lights on the gutter or standing near the top of an eight-foot stepladder gamely trying to ring Christmas lights around the evergreen next to the driveway induces yours truly to become positively catatonic. 

    None of this is made an easier by the fact that while my wife steadies the ladder, the same ladder that at any moment promises to pitch me to an agonizing death on the hard concrete below contrary to her assurances “it’s okay your only six feet off the ground,” she is watching the next door neighbor dangling quite comfortably by one arm from the eve of his home (the South Rim equivalent of the Washington Monument) neatly spacing his Christmas lights exactly 9 and 7/8 inches apart, while listening to the Bronco game on the portable radio and carrying on a conversation with any person he catches wandering by.   When finished, my neighbors” Christmas display gleams with a precision that would turn a Prussian general green with envy.  My display, when illuminated against a darkened sky, more closely resembles a Stanford band halftime show.