Holiday Display

There was a certain pride and honor associated with being the one chosen to go plug in the Christmas lights at our house. We never had a truly gaudy display - just a string that ran along the roof line - and only in the front. When they came on though, they cast a most impressive glow. Our neighbors on either side weren't particularly disposed to holiday decorations, so we managed to be the bright spot at the end of the street. I remember standing in the garage as the lights came on (the plug ran to the outlet just outside the garage door). The best effect was always achieved after a snow, with the light bouncing off the icy driveway.
Putting up the lights was a production in itself. It always began with the same drill: My father would bring the lights down from the attic, and then take them out to the front lawn where he could stretch each string out to inspect them. Helping meant avoiding carelessly stepping on a bulb, or tangling the yards of wire draped across the yard. These were the big bulbs, not the "twinkle lights" we have all become accustomed to. Then it was time to take them up on the roof. If you were old enough, and willing to spend plenty of time waiting, you could crawl up with dad and help him hand the lights from the series of hooks just below the eaves. You might even get to replace bulbs on a string - always being careful not to put the same color bulb next to the one that needed replacing.
Up on the roof, you would get endless warnings about safety, and the need to walk carefully so as not to make cracks in the roof. Sometimes we would spend a few minutes peering down the chimney, trying to imagine what trick of physics would possibly get a big fat man with a sack full of toys down that tiny opening. One year there had been a tremendous blizzard the week before the lights went up, and there was a three foot deep drift in the back yard. I don't recall who figured out that it was possible, but it turned out that you could toss yourself off the roof into the drift and land with a pretty satisfying but safe thud in a pile of snow. As my father continued to string lights, we took turns plummeting to earth and climbing back up the ladder, until the drift became compacted enough to create serious injury.
After we were done, and the sun went down, we would stand out on the sidewalk and admire our work. It was always the same display, but it always looked brand new each holiday season. When I went to bed that night, I could see the lights shining through the curtains of my bedroom. I used to imagine that the red one that blinked might be Rudolph. I went to sleep with a smile on my face.