The sun was shining brightly and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Neighbors were out in their yards. The mailman drove by. The voice of Brad Paisley wafted through the warm air and across the lawn from the speakers positioned strategically in the garage. The stage was set: time to put up the Christmas lights!
Nope, this setting was not an idylic summer afternoon three months ago; this was yesterday. In years past, the extent that the outside was decorated for Christmas depended partially on how long one could stay out before one's fingers had lost all feeling. Not this year. My brother and I enjoyed stringing and wrapping and bedecking in sixty degree weather. Ah, it was lovely.
About four or five years ago, my brother and I took over hanging the outside lights at my parent's house. I don't remember exactly how that came about, but I think it had something to do with a greater artistic vision for the Christmas decorations than my Dad was willing to attempt. So we decided to do it ourselves. Every year there is the traditional figuring out of the ideal alignment of plugs and outlets, and the stringing of lights down the hallway and back up again to make sure all of the lights work. We always listen to Brad Paisley's Christmas album, probably because that is what we listened to the first year and it seemed like a good tradition to keep. My brother does the roof while I tackle the trees. It's a good system. Afterwards I drank a cup of peppermint hot chocolate, not because I needed it in sixty degree weather, but because it felt like the right thing to do. I love Christmas.
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