It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Isn’t that how the song goes?
Everyone has their Christmas traditions. Mine is writing about the joys of decorating the house, which inevitably brings… challenges. Like every other year before this one, I was determined to start the festooning really early; like Santa-on-the-front-lawn-come-August early. Just like my best-laid gift-shopping plans, however, life got in the way, and by the last week in November, my front lawn was still completely devoid of lights. Panic was basically setting in.
I have been nursing what they call a ‘bum knee’ in the medical business (which is the ONLY reason I wasn’t in the marathon, honest), so climbing up ladders and clocking 20,000 steps a day probably wasn’t the best idea. However, when hired help told me they wouldn’t be available for at least a week, there was nothing else for it – I pulled up my knee brace, put on my (literally) big girl pants, and started getting boxes out of the attic.
The only good thing about the process this time around was that I’d – for once in my life – had the foresight to pack all the lights neatly away in bags. My modus operandi, ever since I started decorating my own home, was to leave strands on bushes outdoors for so long that they disappeared into the foliage ‘Jumanji’-style, and I’d have to cut them out with scissors. Either that, or I’d push them way past the bounds of their manufacturer’s guarantees and leave them stretched in the hot sun for months, then wonder why only a few bulbs were working near the end.
Of course, all that being said, it is the nature of fairy lights – and there is an unspoken understanding – that 10-25% will not work the year after purchase. Unless you’re willing to spend $50 on five feet of LEDs that promise such durability, you could put them in the will for your grandkids, you accept the reality and buy extras to fill in the gaps.
As I headed out to the garden with a mass of knotted strands in one arm, and a ladder and cable ties in the other, I couldn’t help but think of Clark Griswold from that wonderful classic, ‘National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’. By the time I had made a good start on one side of the front lawn, covering bushes, trees, grass and anything that didn’t move, the main outlet was a game of electrical Jenga, with extension after extension after extension balanced one atop the other. I remembered when I had an electrician come to the house because I wasn’t getting any power from that point.
“You know, these cords aren’t meant to be used like this,” he said, trying to locate patient zero in the middle of the jumble.
Bah, what did he know? He was only qualified.
Anyone who read my column last year will recall that I got up on the roof to attach the icicle lights, even though I loathe heights. I also managed to get about as far from the ladder as possible when it started pouring rain, which turned the standing seam surface into a slick hazard, forcing me to inch painfully across the width of the house to freedom, long after the sun set. The mosquitoes had a field day.
After that experience, I was perfectly willing to pay someone to take on the job this year, but again, I couldn’t find anyone immediately available. I don’t know about you, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s a small window where I’m enthusiastic about getting a task done. Once it closes, I lose all interest. So, the only solution was to brave the roof once more.
At least I had learned valuable lessons from my first attempt. This time, I was going up in the early afternoon, plus I was taking a cushion, bottled water, and bags of everything I needed. People climbing Everest pack less. I was a bit worried about my knee, but managed to clamber up from the top of the ladder (with bestie Lynne, holding it and yelling encouragement/advice) without killing my Olympic chances. The acrophobia kicked in immediately. I had a choice: I could either walk across the roof in seconds, or crawl in minutes. I chose walking, keeping my eyes firmly trained on my feet rather than the breathtaking view of condos along Seven Mile Beach.
Anyone driving by would have heard, “You’re walking on the ground. You’re walking on the ground,” repeated in my wobbly voice. The chanting helped.
As before, I started in the far left corner of the house, securing the end with a clip. I made my way up the pitch, clipping as I went. It was only when I got to the other end of that strand of icicles that I saw I’d made a rookie mistake: I’d put the plug in the wrong place.
I considered going back and switching everything around, and then thought I’d rather drive glass shards into my eyeballs. I’d just have to readjust my electrical extensions plan.
I have to say that I didn’t find the job quite so hard going this year. Maybe I just knew which pitfalls to avoid, and how to keep my soft bits away from the sharp corners of the standing seam near the gutters. Whatever the reason, I finished with time to spare, and was able to walk most of the way back to where the ladder was positioned.
There was a bit of a moment when I was coming back down. My feet were trying to find the ‘this-is-NOT-a-step’ step, and Lynne below was telling me I had to bend my ankles more towards the building.
“That’s really difficult, Lynne,” I said, hanging in limbo.
“Okay, well come down onto the next step, then,” she helpfully suggested.
“Are you CRAZY??!” I yelped. “I won’t make it!”
I didn’t think it was possible to angle feet to that extreme, but the idea of having to drop down further suddenly gave me ankles like Neo from ‘The Matrix’, which bent at my will.
Soon after, I felt the reassuring structure under my toes. It was over.
Since then, I’ve been concentrating on my lit lawn sculptures. The horse and carriage are back out, and their lights are as ethereal as ever. There can’t be any moon and full cloud cover is a plus, for any hint of illumination to be obvious. The manger scene is also in place and I think the candy canes will be next.
I’m still of two minds about resurrecting the ice skating snowman. He would have tested the patience of Job last year; I simply could not get him to stand up straight for any length of time. ‘Indoor/OUTDOOR’ my eye. The slightest breath of wind either had him leaning back as though he needed a kip, or flat on his face like he’d been out on a bender.
Last week, just before I went to get him out of the attic, I nipped to the supermarket to buy another 1,906 boxes of chocolate biscuits for the holidays. On the drive back to my house, I saw a similar snowman on the lawn of a small office. This one wasn’t on an ice skate, but he was bright, colourful… and about 30 degrees from the ground. Did it run in the family?
All the memories of my trials and tribulations with Frosty came flooding back, and I instantly nixed the idea of assembling him again. Ho-ho-ho, fuggedaboutit.
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