Yuletide Lycanthropy

For years the thought of putting up Christmas lights has evoked a strange and fearsome phenomenon in me. Admittedly, I can occasionally become a bit irascible—I have normal seasons of cheerful and moody temperament. But something about a tangle of untested twinkly lights brings my blood to a boil, making the day Christmas lights go up a sinister trial of domestic bliss.

It didn’t start out that way. On our first Christmas together my wife and I bought a Christmas tree so humble that Charlie Brown may have thought twice before taking it. But, it nicely matched the furniture in our married student housing apartment. We strung some popcorn and fashioned a few construction paper ornaments. After buying the tree, there was no money left to purchase a string of lights, and yet we were determined to see it well lit. My wife produced a small box of birthday candles, and I dug out a package of pipe cleaners. Together we spent the next hour carefully binding those tiny candles among the branches of our homely little tree. Then it took nearly two full minutes and 6 matches to light them all.  We quickly sat in the dark on our couch admiring the wonder of our beautifully lit Christmas tree for less than a minute before we jumped up and blew them all out.

I think back on that exploit with great trepidation. I still have visions of a tiny ugly tree blooming into flame and torching the apartment building. We were as fortunate as we were foolish. The next time around we were wise enough to buy a set of Christmas lights and that was where the trouble started.

While the task of stringing lights was restricted to the tree alone, the inner turmoil was manageable, for the most part. Still, both my wife and I were puzzled by my unseasonable snappishness around decorating the tree. Then came the day when boxes of little twinkly lights came home in support of a dramatic expansion of our efforts to welcome Christmas. We were determined to create a display that kept pace with neighborhood standards.

I have a theory, not yet proven, but I think there is ample evidence to take it seriously. Just as the full moon has the mythic power to transform an ordinary human being into a werewolf, I am convinced that icicle lights have the ability to create a kind of Yuletide lycanthrope. My wife soon learned to take herself and the children Christmas shopping while I strung the lights.

I remember pleading to just leave the lights up from year to year, but my wife’s unfortunate sensibility and concern for our standing in the neighborhood led to two periods of emotional darkness each year as I put the lights up and then took them down. And of course, I studied the forecast for weeks in an attempt to pick the most inconvenient weather to poignantly enhance the experience.

We saved our marriage by minimizing the light display and purchasing a prelit artificial Christmas tree. The process of unboxing, assembling, and plugging things together could be accomplished before the beast could wake. Now, the advent of our new nomadic life has brought even greater relief. We no longer have a house in which to put up a tree nor eves on which to hang lights. Amazingly, that seems to have finally done the trick. While other people risk the curse to light their trees and deck their halls, I just echo my wife’s oohs and aahs without the slightest emotional twinge.

Still, I find my emotional malady over putting up Christmas lights quite weird. As I’ve pondered this, I’ve come to believe it may stem from my earliest days of life. I was born in Alaska. The beauty of snow-covered Alaska needs no adornment to hail the coming of Christmas. Perhaps, I have an aversion to artificial holiday lighting because of my early exposure to Alaska’s natural Christmas beauty. To support this hypothesis and as a way to share a sentimental holiday message, I’m going to turn to my mother’s account of my first Christmas in her book, Your Alaskan Daughter. For those who don’t know, this book is the account of my parents’ Alaskan homesteading in 1953. The stories are told through letters she wrote to her mother in Kansas.

Hope, Alaska

December 24, 1953

Dear Mother,

Well, this has been a real old-fashioned Christmas around here. We didn’t make our trip to Seward. The roads were really bad. The highway is all right, but the seventeen-mile stretch between here and the main highway isn’t passable.

We have our tree up. It’s a little one, and I have it all decorated with tiny ornaments. We’re surely pleased with it. We couldn’t have turned around in our living room if we had had the big kind so typical in this land of Christmas trees, and anyway, it’s really for Tommy, and he’s such a tiny guy—he needs a tiny tree.

Last night we went to the school Christmas program. It really is an all-community affair. We took Tommy. His good behavior made his proud parents even prouder. Not a “squawk” out of him. The program itself was quite an experience. Harold says that it was very typical of a small community program, but I guess I hadn’t seen any of that kind. It didn’t take me long to get over the unprofessional, relaxed air of it all, and really enjoy it.

You would not believe the gifts! I’m not kidding when I say that most of the children came to the program with shopping bags and went home with their faith rewarded. I guess lots of people gave each child a gift. But what amazes me the most is that every year, for years and years, Grannie Clark has knitted a pair of mittens for each child in Hope. There were mittens, mittens, mittens, and every pair was different. It really was an astounding array.

Our Christmas day tomorrow will go something like this. I’ll do my morning work first, then we’ll open our presents. At four o’clock we’ll go over to the big community dinner. Isn’t that the funniest hour for a meal? Makes you wonder when to eat the other meals. I guess there’s always enough left for another big meal the next day. So likely we’ll be eating Christmas dinner again Saturday evening.

The mail truck just drove in. I know that the mailman usually has quite a few deliveries around town, so I am going to chance writing yet a little more before I send this. I know that you have been aware of my disappointment that I would not be home for Christmas in Kansas. I know that I have the gift of your understanding in that realm. So, I want to give you a gift in exchange. You won’t get it in time for Christmas, but you will know that I am sending it at the right time. 

Here is the gift:

A couple of days ago when Harold got home from work, I decided to walk down to the store to get an item or two. I dressed warmly, grabbed the flashlight, and soon had accomplished my mission. On the way back I was suddenly aware of the ethereal beauty all around me. Even though it was only late afternoon, it was completely dark with the moon and stars out. The snow crunched crisply under my feet as I walked past our little church, just a dark shape in heaven’s lesser lights. In the moon glow, the snow on the road was a field of diamonds. My flashlight’s beam was pale and completely unnecessary to illuminate my path.

As I approached our little house, I could see the glow of lamplight from the window. It spilled out, a softly flickering yellow reflection on the snow. I could hear the subdued radio sound of violins interpreting a familiar Christmas carol. This background music told me that Harold would be sitting in the big old wooden rocker reading. Likely he would have Tommy covered up nicely and asleep on his lap.

My warm little cottage. Food in the pantry, the tea-kettle steaming on the stove, the brave little Christmas tree. My husband. Our baby. As I crunched the final steps to our house, I thought in surprise. “This is my home. I will be home for Christmas after all.”

Love,

Your Alaskan daughter, Harriet