I THINK I’m in trouble. Heather has started hinting that, just maybe, this should be the year we put Christmas lights on the house.
So far, it’s been pretty subtle. She’s noted where the outdoor power connection is. She’s mentioned how nice some of the neighbor’s lights look, and that it doesn’t look that hard. The other day, she guided me down a minor guilt trip about how her family never put out lights when she was a girl.
Yes, for Heather, this is subtle. Blatant would involve her standing at the door with six strands of lights and a stepladder, saying “Merry Christmas, honey! Guess what YOU get to do!”
Where’s Chevy Chase when you need him?
Let it be said in my defense that I love Christmas lights. To me, it’s the first sign that the season has truly gotten underway. Heather and I can spend hours going up and down side streets to examine displays, admiring the gorgeous and the garish alike.
And unlike my lady wife, I did have outdoor Christmas lights growing up in Colorado. As regular as clockwork, Dad would get the colored lights out of the basement, check them for bad bulbs and string them along the edge of the roof. Taking them down could take a bit longer — one year, the Christmas lights didn’t make their final retreat until Easter.
But while they lasted, they were simple and almost magical. One Christmas I was convinced I had seen the glow of Rudolph’s nose out my bedroom window. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had witnessed Rudolph the red-bulbed roof light.
So why not here? Why not now?
The name is Rochat, not Scrooge, so I won’t try to claim economic reasons. Truth is, I’d kind of like to try it myself. My hesitation comes from two main sources.
One is gross physical incompetency. I have all the grace and coordination of Inspector Clouseau on roller skates in an ice rink. I once managed to split my chin open chasing a Wal-Mart bag across a parking lot. Throwing ladders and electricity into the mix strikes me as unwise — especially when people assure me “there’s nothing to it” or “it’s perfectly safe.”
The other factor, and probably the bigger one, is intimidation.
Every year, I approach the holidays with more enthusiasm than skill. I’m the one who can go through half a roll of wrapping paper for one present and still end up with odd corners and folds (on the plus side, you always know which package is mine).
I’m a little worried about a similar result with the house. This town has some truly beautiful displays: clean, simple, inviting. It also has several that follow the Every Square Inch rule stacking Santas, snowmen and oversized snow globes on every available patch of lawn. One gigantic Santa even appeared to be wearing antlers — did he join the Moose Lodge without telling anyone?
Both extremes make me nervous, because I can’t come anywhere close to them. I can picture my first string of lines zagging this way and that, like the rickrack on Charlie Brown’s shirt. Maybe I can convince Heather the house is crooked.
Or maybe I can stop worrying. Christmas isn’t a competition, after all. It’s about doing the best you can, even when it means putting yourself on the line. It’s about thinking of others instead of worrying about yourself. It’s about acting from love without counting the cost.
That’s the real beauty of the season.
So maybe I will give it a shot. Let’s see ... I’m going to need some lights. A good ladder. And maybe some advice from an expert.
I wonder if ol’ Chevy has a hotline?
Scott Rochat’s e-mail address is rochat@emporiagazette.com.