Christmas Lights

Here is a picture of the old Bavon post office (actually I have no idea if it's the post office or not, but it sounds like the right thing to call it), which now sports a sign that says "Downtown Bavon." That's an oxymoron, you know, like "jumbo shrimp." A contradiction. Other than this building, the following establishments are located in Bavon: (insert sounds of crickets and howling wolves here). Bavon may well be the fiddler crab capital of the world, however. They grow 'em big and they grow' em mean here.

Like many people, I spent the days after Thanksgiving bringing out the Christmas decorations and questioning the wisdom of consuming 15 fried oysters at one sitting. Unlike many people, I waged war against my decorations--or rather they attacked me, and I was forced to declared war. (As of today, the score is Outdoor Decorations 10, Chesapeake Bay Woman 0. Indoor Decorations 5, Chesapeake Bay Woman 2. As you can see, the decorations are winning.)

The reason I have to wage war against my own decorations is because I am less than organized when I put them away each January, and I somehow think they will miraculously organize themselves over the next 11 months. (In this instance, "put them away" is defined as ripping lights* and ornaments down in no particular order and tossing them in the closest bin or bag. There is no rhyme or reason to my packing. I'm really not very patient when it comes to removing decorations. Or putting them up. Or doing anything that requires patience.)

Anyway, all this Christmas decorating made me remember a story about my mother when she was putting up our tree many moons ago.

We had many strands of those huge lights – the really big ones that came in different colors. Some of the strands were quite old. This was in the days before the three-pronged outlets. It was after the wheel was invented, and a few years after electricity (aka "current") was introduced to our county. But definitely before the days of three-pronged outlets.

My mother had to plug each and every strand in to make sure the lights worked.

On this particular occasion, Chesapeake Bay Child** felt a bit mischievous. You might even say she felt a tad wicked. A wild hair sprouted right on top of her head. She methodically studied her mother carefully untangle each strand of lights and plug them in. Then, just after that wild hair sprouted, she waited for her mother to unfold the next strand, which was a particularly old strand of lights. Right at the exact same moment that her mother plugged those old lights in, Chesapeake Bay Child clapped her hounds very loudly, trying to imitate the sound of electricity popping.

Chesapeake Bay Mother jumped back and screamed. Chesapeake Bay Bad Child howled with laughter.

Chesapeake Bay Child has very conveniently forgotten anything that happened next, but wishes to say how sorry she is for any innocent nerves that may have been plucked in the making of this story.

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Footnotes:
* - I have one dear friend whose husband uses a weed-eater to remove the lights each year from the exterior of his house. He just throws the wreckage away and buys new ones next year. When I first heard this, my first instinct was, "How wasteful." I now marvel at the ingenuity of his actions and only regret that I do not fully understand how to operate a weed-eater, and am wondering if a chain saw might do the trick.

** - It is very convenient to lapse into the third person when referencing things I wish I hadn't done or choose not to acknowledge.