Nothing burns as bright with the spirit of Christmas as a desiccated Douglas fir
I can’t decide if it is more sad as a single 46-year-old man to put up a Christmas tree for the holidays or more sad not to. It helps me to think of it like an Onion headline: “Sad man erects Christmas tree and places present for self underneath” or “Single man who ‘needed time to work on self’ now nearing retirement.”
My neighbors across the street do a huge Christmas display every year, complete with a bright red 1950s style pickup truck parked in the yard with a tree in the bed and a grinch on the hood. There’s a glowing baby Jesus in a manger with a few hay bales and a bunch of other glowing people checking out the baby, plus what looks like a little glowing sheep. There’s a 4 foot tall illuminated Santa and likewise a snowman and a Nutcracker soldier and another 4 foot tall Santa.
The whole house and every tree and railing and gutter are covered in colorful lights and the glare is so powerful it seeps through my home’s window blinds as though a rainbow is knocking on the door every evening. I don’t mind it. But the contrast it sets up feels like an accusation. Every night their house is lit up like a veritable landing strip for the reindeer at the North Pole. And then there is my house, wrapped snugly in darkness, not even a twinkle visible within.
