One of my fondest childhood memories of Christmas in the 1970’s was riding around in the family station wagon, “Bessie,” to look at Christmas lights while I whined to my parents about needing a snack – again. There was something magical about a familiar evening landscape transformed to a radiant wonderland at the expense of someone’s lumbar spine.
My dad always made sure that our house was exemplary in its presentation of illuminated holiday décor, and even now, his legendary displays make my own attempts look like those of an unsupervised toddler with a Lite-Brite toy.
Little did I know as a child exactly how much work goes into producing a respectable home display that delights passersby and annoys the neighbors. But now that I’m an adult (sort of ), I take pride in climbing on the roof and crawling around the yard for the sake of an electrified Christmas spectacle that makes me feel like I’ve sprained everything except my belly button.
