One of my favorite things this December has been walking my granddaughter to the bus on mornings so crisp I can see her breath in the air. She skips and sings and hoots a reply to an owl in the distance. Before crossing the street, she shoots a grin at a twelve-foot skeleton left up from Halloween, looming in a neighbor’s yard across from the park. Now donned in a red skirt and Mrs. Claus cap, Skelley’s bony arms cradle a strand of bright lights, apropos for this season of the year.
Recently, Skelley’s homeowners, somewhat taken aback, used our neighborhood’s Facebook page to share the content of an unsigned letter they got in the mail. The letter referenced their lighting display, deeming it somewhat “evil and demonic.”
That post provoked its own sizzles and pops. Dozens—and dozens—of neighbors weighed in. One or two suggested the display was, well, “dumb,” but an overwhelming majority said they found Skelley fun. Inoffensive. No one else mentioned finding it “evil” or “demonic.”
Skelley reminds me we all see the seasons differently. And by that I mean life, because life passes in seasons, too. Trends come and go, whether we’re talking about cars and hair styles or outside Christmas lights and décor.
When I was a kid, December meant colored lights on the bushes as well as a light-up plastic Santa and sleigh and reindeer up on the rooftop just so. My stepdad did all the work, but he drew the line when my mom asked for stringed lights to line the roof’s edge. “That would be tacky,” he told her.
At some point, probably during my own young-mom season of life, I cringed at all the outdoor Santa displays. What about Jesus being the reason for the season? Then I befriended a woman who’d converted from Catholicism to Judaism. Personally, she found all the outside December lights and decor tasteless.
Ouch. But that’s what she felt in that season. Her season.
These days, I bask in my glorious grandparent season. I don’t let the tangles and knots of the holiday lights stress me out too much. Granted, I am still struggling to warm to all the new-fangled inflatables. I know, I know, a lot of folks love ‘em. Maybe it’s because I’m older—or as my granddaughter’s learned to phrase it, golden—but in my mind, inflatables are the mullet hairstyle of holiday lighting. With luck, they’re just a fad that will pass. Eventually. God willing. Maybe they’ll even stay good and gone. Unlike the mullet.
This season, though, what the heck? Bring on the inflatables…the abundance of lights…Skelley and Santa. The Nativity, too, please. (Although, I confess, I struggle with questions about that in this latest season of mine. Like, why do we celebrate Jesus’s birth in the winter instead of the spring? And how is it Mary and Joseph, despite their long journey, remain so clean? And Caucasian?)
But enough already. I count myself lucky to celebrate yet another season. I’m happy to string my white lights and fake greenery, even if down the street, Skelley stands prouder, her light strand more vibrant and fun. So be it. We don’t have to decorate cookie-cutter style in this ‘hood.
And that, my friend, is just one sweet thing I'm celebrating during this joyful season.
