Dec. 23, 1996
I have shared almost 27 years of marriage with Bill, years which personify "wedded bliss." But as
a friend pointed out to me today, it's the little things that get you. Christmas lights may be my
downfall.
My little German mother had sole control over the Christmas decorations when I was growing up. Although my father's family wholeheartedly celebrated the season with Scandinavian flare, dad could have cared less. The words "Bah, humbug!" were scripted for him. Mother, a severe anal- retentive, would put tinsel on the tree one strand at a time, spacing them out perfectly. Putting up the lights was dad's job (one which exposed me to new and greater expletives each year), but he did it strictly under mother's direction. Colorful lights and bulbs were standard in the 50s and 60s, but nothing more garish for mom, and certainly not anything like glowing plastic snowmen or candles standing 4 feet tall in the front yard!
Mom's reserve stuck with me, and when I married Bill, my first edict was "NO color bulb ornaments! Individual specialty ornaments only!" Since we had 15 foot trees in those days (our house was built much like a ski chalet) I "allowed" the brightly colored lights we inherited from Bill's parents, but I wasn't happy. I dreamed of a white lights Christmas.
My wish came true once we moved to Seattle. We replaced the almost-antique large sized multicolored strings of high-heat bulbs with the cool white lights which twinkled but NEVER blinked. I felt as if my little tree was perfection. I henceforth let Bill and the children take charge of decorating the tree every Christmas. What a fool I was. The lights on the tree remained white, but suddenly I noticed blinkers. "HEY!" I cried. "What's going on?"
"The children wanted them. I got them really cheap at Chubby and Tubby's. I have an extra string. How about outside?"
I grabbed the string and tastefully taped it around the trim of the French doors, giving a certain "old country" appearance to our house. Somehow, the lights around the doors next year turned into blinkers.
Each year more lights crepted into the displays. At first they were always white ("Replacements!"), but one year Ernst had a sale on color-strings, and those popped into our bushes. William apparently inherited this love of lights because he went into cahoots with his dad. Soon our house had lights all around the shrubs, blinking and glowing. I would mutter, "Bah, humbug!" as I passed by.
This year came as a shock. I readied the house for our big Scandinavian party and prepared food for our friends. Meg as always decorated the tree beautifully, while Bill and William took charge of lights. Everyone worked contentedly. Night fell, and as our friends sat round the house talking, eating, and singing, Bill asked innocently, "Have you seen the lights, Jody? Go outside to the street for the full effect."
I braved the cold and trotted outdoors. As I turned around my jaw fell and my eyes widened. All I could think of was Chevy Chase and "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation." Our house radiated with little multi-colored lights outlining the whole front as well as the second story and the shrubbery.
It
took me a good week to grow to accept Bill's and William's amazing lighting. I still wish they had
used only little white lights and NO blinkers, but I guess I can't say too much since I never lifted a
finger to help. Moving crossed my mind, but real estate is so damn expensive in Seattle.
