Christmas came to my house yesterday. Pam’s iPod was plugged into her sound dock, blasting out the Holy Trinity of Christmas music, Nat King Cole, The Carpenters, and Harry Connick Jr. Several trips into the attic filled our living room with 29 years of Christmas nicknackery. By the end of the day, garland had been hung, candles and swags had been placed on every window sill, five trees had been decorated, and the entire house had taken on the smell of Yankee Candle pine cones. The only epic fail of the day came at my expense. We have a ten foot tall holly tree in the front yard that I like to load up with those old 1950’s style lights, the big ones that get hot to the touch after being on for 15 seconds. I carefully laid out all four strands and made sure they all worked, then climbed the ladder and went to work. 125 lights later, I was done. When it was time for the grand illumination last night, the entire house burst into magnificent, festive color, except for the three feet of darkness at the very top of my holly tree. I checked the box, made in China, Hecho en China. Once again, foiled by free trade globalists and their cheap foreign labor.
So now I enter the 30 days of the year when my house looks its best. At night, a warm, inviting light bathes every room. From the street the place looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting. It’s the kind of house that a man wants to come home to, and never leave. Yes, my house will be a fire hazard for the entire month of December, one crushed bulb away from burning to the ground. But Christmas spirit is worth the risk.