In an imperfect world, all you can do is fight against the darkness
By Mike Dewey
December 12, 2010
292
At first, I simply laughed it off as yet another indication that we live in an imperfect world. After all, who could be upset when the first string of Christmas lights, pulled from a box housed in the garage for nearly a year, didn't work?
It never occurred to me that the next five would fail, too, or that of the 15 strands I'd packed away last winter, only six would perform as I'd expected.
But that's precisely what happened on the afternoon I'd dedicated to decorating the tree in the sunroom.
"What the #&!*," I said, looking around for Durwood Kirby or Alan Funt.
And if "Candid Camera" is too ancient a reference, it felt like I was being Punk'd.
I've been hanging lights this time of year for decades and nothing like that kind of power outage had ever occurred. It seemed a cruel joke and I was looking for someone to blame.
Alas, nothing I did to remedy the situation worked. Electricity is funny that way: Yell all you like, if there's no current, there's no light.
Allow me a quick math lesson ... 15 strings at 100 per equals 1,500 lights ... subtract 900 and you end up with 600, which meant that my tree would look half-naked.
I wasn't counting on that.
Sure, I understand that there's always a chance a couple of strings might fail, but this was ridiculous.
A few Christmases ago, I wrote a column about how building a tree has always reminded me of creating the layers of a homemade pizza.
The tree is the crust.
The lights are the sauce.
The ornaments are the toppings.
And the tinsel is the cheese.
One faithful reader, responding to that piece of insight or inanity, wrote to me, wondering what I'd been smoking the night I built that tree and that he'd like some of it.
But the metaphor still works for me and when most of sauce, so to speak, was spoiled this year, I was faced with two choices.
Either do a half-baked job or drive into town and give a business I'll call MegaMart my business.
I'm not a MegaMart fan but most Americans are and I was desperate, so I decided to join the parade.
My wife was confused.
"You want me to drive you to MegaMart?" she asked. "You hate that place."
"Hate," I said, quoting my brother, "is too much work. All I know is that I need a lot of lights or else this tree is going to be a mess. Let's go."
My wife knows MegaMart, every square inch of it, and gave me perfect directions to the place where I could find what I needed. The saleslady was efficient and friendly.
An hour later I was dug in, ready to finish the tree.
Once I strung the sauce, er ... I mean, the lights, all that remained was more than a thousand ornaments.
Piece of pie.
Before I began that six-hour marathon, I put in the first VCR tape of "The Civil War," Ken Burns' masterpiece documentary and, as the boxes emptied and I absorbed history first-hand, I fell into a rhythm that carried me until dawn's early light.
What I wish is that you could see this place, not only that tree in the sunroom, but the whole house. It's seasonal beyond belief. My wife has impeccable taste and a fine work ethic, which means that she hardly complained at all when I dragged in dozens of boxes and said, with a huge smile, "This'll be fun."
We played Christmas carols, we lighted a fire in the hearth, we worked together, we work apart, we took frequent breaks ... and, best of all, we celebrated the time we shared.
As I said at the outset, it's an imperfect world and since we completed our annual decorating death march, a few strands of lights of failed.
"It happens," I said.
"Can you fix it?"
"Sure."
"When?"
Ah, the glories of marriage.
Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.
