"Go outside and help your father...."

A free column this week. If you’re getting into the Christmas spirit, how about manifesting that by becoming a paid subscriber? It’s only $5 a month, and for that you get 2 columns a week, plus access to the hundreds of pieces in the back catalog. PLUS my undying thanks. I absolutely cannot do this without my paid subscribers. They make this world go ‘round…

Driving home the other night I noticed my town had put up its Christmas lights. A town that cares enough to put up some lights around the holidays is better than one that doesn’t. Well done, Archbald.

It’s not too gaudy. It’s not like you’re driving through Bedford Falls or anything. But it’s enough to make you feel a little better as you’re passing under them, as if somebody is looking out for you. Somebody is making an effort. As is so often the case, it’s the little things.

Just as important as putting them up is knowing when to take them down. If it’s scratching February and they are still up, it means somebody can’t be arsed to finish the job, which spoils the effort. I remember one year in downtown Scranton different agencies fighting over who would pay for taking down the decorations, as they were still hanging like dead leaves as the Saint Patrick’s Day parade approached. That’s a bad look.

Don’t be that town.

#####

Growing up my Father had the knack for picking the coldest day of the year to put the outside decorations up. Once I was old enough my Mom would shove me out the door to “go help your father”, which mostly consisted of me standing below a ladder, alternately freezing my ass off, and hoping he didn’t fall of. His wardrobe never varied, so he’d be wearing light slacks and dress shoes. No gloves, and one of those railroad conductor hats that didn’t cover his ears. And there I was, Mom-dressed like that kid in the movie “A Christmas Story” who fell over and could not get himself back up. He seemed impervious to the cold, even as I could see his finger and ear tips turning alarming colors.

Inevitably, half the strands of lights did not work. My older sister would always implore him to throw away all the old lights, which were probably a decade old, and buy new ones. He ignored her, being a child of the depression, and would spend hours testing every single bulb. He had a baggy filled with replacement lights, and if it took him 12 hours to get all the strands working, well then it took him 12 hours. My Mom would be standing in the doorway, fretting, perhaps worried about child labor laws, but eventually he’d be satisfied, and he’d call her to come out and inspect. This was the moment of truth. A light wrinkle of the nose could torpedo hours worth of work. But he just about always got it right the first time. The man knew his way around Christmas lights. While the rest of us nipped on hot chocolate, my Mom would crack him a well-earned Schmidt's 16 oz can. He’d earned it.

#####

When my Dad passed I was on my own. I’d get the call from my Mom, gently suggesting that it might be time, and I’d plan a Saturday outing, which of course would fall on a day when the temps plunged into single digits. My sister would again suggest we throw away the lights from the Watergate era, and this time I would agree. My Mom might suggest that one of my young daughters go out and “help your father” but they seemed content to watch from the living room window.

I never had my Dad’s flair with the decorations, but I’d make up for it by just buying more and more strings of them, until it was hard to tell if the house was fronted by bushes or klieg lights. Upon inspection, my Mom was nearly blinded by the spectacle, and never knew what to say. But it was very Christmas-y. You could not deny that.

As for the inside, my Dad always insisted on a real tree, so just like in the movies he’d pile us into the station wagon and drive out to Bumble in a snow storm, armed with an ax. He’d crawl under feet of snow to cut his favorite down, once again oblivious to the cold, and have it lashed to the hood of the car for the return trip. My Mom never went with us, but would be waiting in the doorway as we returned, anxious to see how much taller the tree was than the living room ceiling. It might have been a guy thing. The same way he never asked for directions when he got lost, he’d never measure the tree before he cut it down. It was a badge of honor that somehow he’d 1. get us to where we were going eventually, and 2. Squish the tree into the living room SOMEHOW.

And he always did, sawing off pieces from the bottom and the top until it seemed like the house was built around the tree. (I have nothing against artificial trees. We’ve used one for years. But they lack that smell. It’s as memorable as the aroma of baking cookies, or the cooking of the roast beast.) All of us kids would help decorate, and I’m sorry if this sounds corny but this was about the most Normal Rockwell-ian shit ever. If I could be this happy again, feel this safe and warm, just for one day, I’d give back some time that I have left.

Happy Holidays y’all….

In a bit…

—tf