Suburban Turmoil: Our not-so-silent nights

We don’t exactly have the best record when it comes to outdoor holiday lights.

It all started a few Christmases ago, when Hubs decided he was going to make our front yard one to remember. He succeeded, but not in the way I had hoped.

“I’m going to add new lights and decorations to our yard every year,” he proclaimed loudly over Thanksgiving dinner, “so that by the time we have grandchildren, we’ll have one of those houses that people drive miles to see.”

“That’s fine,” I said, “so long as you keep it classy. Stick with a couple of colors and a general theme. Don’t just plunk down whatever you can find on sale at Home Depot.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘classy’ when it comes to Christmas lights,” Hubs replied, giving me a dark look. “There’s only ‘fun.’”

I knew then that I was doomed.

“I want you to come out here and see something,” Hubs called from the front door several evenings later. Warily, I went out and joined him on the lawn.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Look at the rhododendron bush!” he prodded.

I looked over at our half-dead rhododendron. It was covered in red lights. Red lights shaped like chili peppers.

“Oh," I said. “Well. When did you get those?”

“I got them at Target today while you and the girls were shopping!” Hubs said proudly.

“I thought you were going to get more snowflakes,” I said softly. A few days earlier, Hubs had bought two boxes of gigantic flashing-light snowflakes, enough to cover the middle portion of one of two firs that flank our front door. Since that time, the neighborhood had been treated to our one-half-of-one-tree snowflake light display. Hubs had solemnly promised to get matching lights for the other tree the moment he had a chance.

“They were out of snowflakes,” Hubs shrugged. “So I got the chili peppers instead.”

“Well, that makes total sense,” I said crankily, before stomping back inside.

For the next few weeks, our crappy Christmas light display was the scourge of the subdivision. Cars would drive by our house and screech to a halt, their occupants gaping at what was surely a violation of every holiday by-law in our homeowners’ association covenant.

I’d like to say Hubs learned a lesson from his first holiday lighting disaster. But he’s only gotten worse, adding a little more horror to our holiday each year.

This Christmas, in addition to the snowflakes (some of which have stopped working) and a mismatched assortment of tiny lighted snowmen and candy canes added last year, he’s bordered our front door with a cheap string of fat, naked bulbs. “They really don’t look good at all,” he admitted once he’d nailed them up. But the fact that they didn’t look good wasn’t enough impetus for him to remove them.

His showstopper, this season was a lighted four-foot-tall snowman, which actually looked pretty good, at least until it toppled over about five minutes after Hubs set it up. Instead of fixing it, though, he simply let the snowman lie there in pieces, while continuing to plug in its cord each night.

“Hey, Chuck Wilson told me he liked the three lit balls and hat in our yard,” Hubs said proudly the other night as he came inside. “He said it was very creative. And when I told him it was actually just a broken snowman, he was really surprised!”

“Hmph,” I said suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. Chuck had been working on his own Christmas light display across the street for several days. What could he be up to? I wondered to myself. That night, I found out.

As soon as the sun went down, Christmas music began blaring from outside. Just as I suspected, it was coming from Chuck Wilson’s house, where three enormous Christmas trees flashed on and off from his front porch in time with a booming rendition of “Joy to the World.”

“What is that, Mommy?” my daughter asked.

“Just a little Christmas cheer,” I answered, grinning as our windows rattled. At last, the spotlight of holiday decorating shame had lifted from our yard and settled on someone else’s.

The music continued late into the night. As I tossed and turned in my bed, I noticed that Hubs’ snoring perfectly matched the beat of “Carol of the Bells.” The next evening, I prepared in advance by digging out a set of earplugs, but Wilson’s yard remained dark and silent. We knew then that some neighborhood Grinch must have complained, and we worried that our broken down snowman would be next. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Hey Chuck!” Hubs called out the next time he saw him outside. “What happened to your music?”

“I got a phone call,” Chuck answered morosely, shaking his head.

“Are you kidding?” Hubs asked. “We loved that music! It was really getting us into the Christmas spirit!” Chuck’s shoulders lifted.

“Was it now?” he asked softly, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, I’ll have to do something about that.”

Within minutes, the familiar strains of “Joy to the World” vibrated through our house once again. From his Barcalounger, Hubs nodded quietly. This act of rebellion inextricably bound him and Chuck together, forming a brotherhood of bad holiday decorating whose ties could be broken by no one.

Except for maybe Metro Codes. I’ll keep you posted.

Read more at www.suburbanturmoil.com.