The Magic is in the Lights

The magic is clearly in the lights. As I walked home from the train every night during this most unholiday-like of seasons toward my unadorned apartment, the colorful lights along the way invariably lifted my mood which varied between sad and anxious on most days.

When I was small, during that last anticipation-filled week before Christmas, my family would pile in the car and head off toward our town, in search of houses decorated with Christmas lights. We had our route. First was the three-story white house positioned on the left just as our town officially turned into the city. My sister and I were thoroughly impressed by the massive show of lights that hung from the roof, every window, every bush and tree. Then, we'd turn right down East Avenue, where my sister and I thought the "rich people" lived. Many of their homes were beautifully  - but tastefully - decorated with lights. The house with the seen-from-the-street chandelier featured a tree that was bigger than any we'd ever seen inside.

Next stop was the grounds of the Veteran’s Administration Hospital . The long driveway leading up to the hospital’s front doors gave us plenty of time to gape in wonder at the two majestic fir trees elegantly decorated with hundreds of lights. Then we'd turn down Redfield Parkway, the second bastion of rich people. It was the only street in our town that featured a wide median, beautifully landscaped during non-snow months. Each house had a small evergreen tree planted in its front yard, and almost every one on the entire street decorated those evergreens with lights. When we asked why some people’s trees were not lit, the answer came back, “They are Jewish.” I didn’t know what that meant and somehow I didn’t dare to ask. But I secretly could not understand why anybody would pass up the opportunity to decorate the tree in their yard.

It was the time before the over-the-top displays started to emerge, at least in our town. Some houses had little statues, sometimes a crèche, or wooden Santa and reindeer figures. I remember my dad cracking up over one particular Santa, whose reindeer were trying to nudge his heavy butt up onto the roof.

Our absolute favorite stop was “The Blind School” – which was really The NY State School for the Blind. They had a huge campus, with trees and bushes colorfully adorned. But the best part was the little houses. There were two or three doll-sized and electrified houses that always sat clustered in one area of the massive side lawn. We would get out of the car and trudge through the snow to those little houses and peek through the windows. Inside, they were fully furnished and decorated for Christmas, complete with little doll people. I was fascinated by the detail – and longed to take them home with me.

Eventually, I grew up - at least chronologically. The man with the white house at the edge of the city got too old to do all that decorating. The VA stopped lighting those majestic firs -- budget cuts. And the "blind school" put away its little houses after vandals struck. I moved away where I started my own driving-around-town tradition with my little girl.

Still, Christmas time took us back to mom's house. After my grandmother passed away in the late eighties, my family started going to late night Christmas eve services at the church of my childhood. There is not really a connection between my grandmother dying and going to church. It just happened that way. In the beginning, my brother-in-law would stay home with his and my sister's youngest daughter and my brother. When she got older and able to stay awake, she joined my mom, my aunt and uncle, my older niece, my daughter and I in the annual pilgrimage. I speak only for myself and my daughter when I say we are not religious but the familiarity of the Christmas story, the soothing sound of the old Christmas hymns, and especially the beauty of the church, lit only by the white lights of the Christmas tree near the altar and the twinkling candles we each held were balm to my spirit. 

Many times as we’d leave the church after midnight, the snow would be swirling about, quickly covering the streets and making driving an adventure. We’d drive through the quiet streets back to my mom’s house, and detour to see the new generation of Christmas lights, often making the first of the tracks in the new snow. We’d be all squished together in the back seat of my aunt and uncle's big car, on top of each other, giggling, with our teeth chattering, “Turn up the heat” – and we’d ooh and aah at the beautiful lights, shining magically in the quiet Christmas night.

Last Saturday night, I drove my brother through the streets of my old hometown, scouting for Christmas lights. My mom used to take him to do that when she was living and I don't want him to miss out. When he says, "That be fun" to my invitation to hop in the car, I know that the lights hold magic for more than just me. Not living there, I have no idea where the "good" displays are. We simply drive around and go down any street that looks promising. U-turns are the norm. He’s partial to the over-the-top collections of “stuff” that adorn the lawns of many who compete in the Jaycee’s annual lighting contest. I prefer the simpler displays that are merely colorful.

I am in Virginia now, where my sister and her family live. Last night I drove back to my sister's after dinner at my older niece's home. In the mile between the two homes, there were several streets with houses that were colorfully lit. My daughter was speaking as we drove, while I was busily fighting my impulse to quickly u-turn and follow my eyes down those streets. I did not follow the lights. But I am still thinking about them. It will be dark again in about two hours. And perhaps I will be pulled out in the cold (yes, it's cold here) to drive around one last night and soak in the magic.