Darkness has descended once again on my street.
About a third of our residents either don’t celebrate Christmas or don’t decorate for the occasion.
Another third do, but opt for the less is more, traditional holiday decorating schemes. Heavy on greenery, candles, even fruit. You know, tasteful.
Another third, my husband included, are more interested in wattage. Lots of lights. He even mixes his colors and his whites. (No wonder I don’t let him near the laundry.) I used to try to get him to commit to one or the other, but my first rule of a happy marriage is “Pick your battles.” I finally listened to my own advice. (His preferred decorating scheme is juvenile. The only modification he’s made since reaching adulthood is to add one of those huge electric-fan-driven blowup Santas.)
So anyway last November as lawns went into winter hiatus, as foliage no longer pleased us with gorgeous autumn color but just looked, well, dead, when the only colors to be seen were those gosh awful winter cabbages that only the true botanical buff plants, we were on the verge of falling into depression. Then Advent arrived and, when one turned the car onto our street, he was cheered by an assortment of brightly lit houses.
But after the last present was opened and the last champagne bottle was uncorked, people rapidly took the glowing strands down. And neighbors would have fallen into winter doldrums were it not for OUR HOUSE.
Because we have a tradition that we don’t take the outdoor lights down until the Dallas Cowboys’ season is over. Some Many years this means nothing; we take them down with everyone else. On at least one occasion we’ve had them up into February. This year, we had them up until yesterday.
But they’re packed away now, waiting for next year, just like Tony Romo.
We can also put our Roger Staubach (Cowboys quarterback, 1969-79) ornament, which has been standing watch on the top of the television, back in storage.