In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it 'Christmas' and went to church; the Jews called it 'Hanukkah' and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say 'Merry Christmas!' or 'Happy Hanukkah!' or (to the atheists) 'Look out for the wall!' ~Dave Barry, "Christmas Shopping: A Survivor's Guide"
I live in what is referred to as the West Side of Colorado Springs. It’s an interesting cultural phenomenon because as elitist as most West Siders like to think that they are, really it’s just a melting pot for a ton of people who have given up on trying to save face in most societal situations.
Take, for example, my neighbor Creg. Creg was the first neighbor to introduce himself to us. He has since brought us lentil soup, Christmas cookies, helped dig post holes for our fence, and donated a huge boulder for our front yard. He likes my dog. He talks to my daughter. He once hung his flag at half mast because a guy who bombed an abortion clinic was executed. You need to be careful when you ask Creg a question because if he is having a manic day (his words, not mine), he will talk to you for the better part of a half of an hour. Rough. Especially when you have ice cream in your car and it’s 87 degrees outside.
Then there is Wayne. Wayne is a 78 year old retiree who lives in a house shaped like a barn. Wayne, at 78, is quite the party animal. He will regale you at whim of stories of drinking binges that occur when his family comes to visit. When he mows his front yard with his shirt off, you worry that the huge belly might, in fact, be evidence of cirrhosis of the liver. Wayne won’t ever cross the street to talk to you, but he’ll yell at you from his porch for about ten minutes…everyone knows Wayne’s business if you know Wayne’s business.
Krista. Krista. Krista. I don’t know Krista well, but everyone else knows Krista. Krista used to know the police quite well, but we haven’t seen them around lately. Krista is missing her two front teeth. Krista brings home different men all of the time, and most of them are quite attractive. Krista is a very nice woman, but she scares me just a tad.
Most unusual of my west side neighbors are Joseph and Jenny, who live right next door. Jenny is a pet psychic. I’ve heard some pretty convincing stories that support her ability, but I haven’t seen evidence of it first hand. When my first dog was dying of cancer, after his operation that left him jawless, she walked by my house and told me that she sensed a lot of drool. I looked at my puppy with the foam dripping down onto the porch below him and agreed with her assessment. She has since told me that she would be willing to work with Fred and all of his quirky oddities…I have politely declined. Joseph talks through his dog, Lola. Joseph never asks you a question directly…he will ask it through Lola. For example, “Lola wants to know what you are doing over here.” Joseph once told my daughter that he wanted a pair of light up princess shoes just like hers. I told him that a) I didn’t think that they made them in his size and b)they weren’t quite his style. He replied that actually, they were exactly his style. When I gave the polite joke laugh, he frowned and said, “No, seriously."
I think that up until now, I have been able to claim sole residence in sanity-ville on our block. But all of that changed this weekend.
It was time to put up the outdoor lights…the weather had turned mild, and I was looking like the dark spot in an otherwise very festive street. Some households fight about what type of Christmas tree to put up year after year; in our house, it was a fight over lights. I have always favored the white lights, but my husband put up too good of a fight for the colored ones. When I opened the box this year to begin my staple-gunning glee, I counted twelve strands of colored lights, all in perfect working order. I gritted my teeth, and resigned myself to another year of lighting compromise. Money is tight this year, and my grandmother still beats me over the head every time I stray from the lessons that she learned during The Great Depression. I sang as I wound and stapled, the same Christmas song over and over again. I tried to switch over to another one, but it never stuck. The more I tried to fight it, the louder my singing became until I dimly became aware that several neighbors had gathered on their porches to watch. I waved and tried to smile through the fallen staples that I had clamped within my front teeth. They waved back warily, casting concerned glances at each other over the wide space of our street.
That night, I lit the display, and my Christmas spirit, a very timid, frail thing this year, fell and shattered on the hardwood floor. Damn colored lights.
The next day, after leaving my daughter with her dad, I drove to the store and bought out the white light display…my grandmother is old and feeble and doesn’t hit nearly as hard as she used to. Back at home, I ripped the old lights down with manic glee and tossed them on the ground next to the puddle that would later turn to solid ice. This time, I talked as I worked. I quoted favorite lines from holiday movies, over and over again. Once again, my neighbors stepped out onto their porches, but this time, no one waved back, or even attempted a smile. With their brows furrowed, they scanned my yard for signs of my daughter, no doubt fearing for her safety.
I’d like to think that when I turned on the lights that night, they oohed and aahed, and all of my frenetic, mad activity was explained. But the reality is that I am probably the person that everyone will avoid for a while as we trot out to our mailboxes to retrieve the mail. Luckily, West Siders seem to have a very limited memory capacity, so I’m confident that by the time I need more ice melt for my sidewalk, or a jump start for my car, they’ll all have forgotten this, and be back to treating me like the grand protector of the sane mind.
Odd thing this leap into the world of the slightly off-kilter. Other than quite easily annoyed, I don’t feel as if there is anything wrong with me. Everyone else seems to have the problems this year. But then again, I would imagine that the person who is being safely restrained by the little silver buckles on his white long-armed jacket feels exactly the same way. I defend my actions with this final statement: To a sane person, the holidays can be hard. To those of us teetering on the edge, off-balance by the little extra digs life is throwing our way, the holidays threaten to be the thing that pushes us over. So we cope and celebrate the best we can. I’ll tell you in all honestly, my toil was not in vain…my lights look good, and they ridiculously remind me that life can now take a different direction. Not everything that comes with change is bad. For the first time in seven years, I have white lights. I mean no disrespect to those of you who favor the red, green, yellow, and blue ones; in fact, come by my house sometime this week; I have twelve strands of those that you can have for free. And if you’re feeling exceedingly daring, and you don’t mind a plethora of nervous ticks with random bouts of Tourette’s-like outbursts, I’ll take you over to meet my neighbors. Creg makes a mean gingerbread cookie, and Wayne, of course, is sure to offer us a drink.
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