CULTURE
Santa Shall Rise Again!
By Mark Bade
At this time of year in our quiet suburban subdivision, our lawnmowers are all nestled snug in their garages for a long winter’s nap. The lawn services won’t return until the seasons have turned several times (although at least one neighbor was still blowing leaves from his lawn on December 17th). And the neighborhood is well decorated for the year-end holiday season.
My wife and I moved to this neighborhood late last winter, so this is our first Christmas here. When we moved in, all of the neighbors we met on our daily walks seemed to know that we were writers, so I guess to them we’re the writers who walk. Or the walkers who write.
This month, during our walks, we’ve seen the entire gamut of holiday decoration. Some homes feature simple wreaths on doors, perhaps candles in the street-side windows, or maybe spotlights highlighting modest, tastefully-placed, exterior wreaths.
Those with more enthusiasm hang icicle lights from the front eaves, blankets of lights in trees and bushes, and strings of bulbs highlighting the architectural features of the house.
Some neighbors take it even further, adding huge, lighted and inflatable plastic holiday characters; or heavily populated religious tableaus; or blinking, flashing, blinking, flashing lawn displays, perhaps with signs in upper-story windows that flash Ho-Ho-Ho one syllable at a time.
The first big snow of the season fell the week after Thanksgiving, after all but the procrastinators in the neighborhood had their holiday decorations in place. For a while, everything was Winter Wonderland.
One of my neighbors had populated his yard with a huge inflatable Santa, a polar bear in a holiday outfit, Frosty the Snowman, the Grinch, Winnie the Pooh and, for at least awhile after Thanksgiving, a Tom Turkey. And that's when we saw it -- the great holiday massacre.
We were walking one day when we came upon them all lying in the snow -- huge deflated plastic carcasses stripped of their holiday spirit. None of the victims seemed in pain. In fact, when I first came on the scene, the turkey, still tethered to its house by an electric cord, had what looked like relief on its deformed face. I smirked, suspecting vandalism by some vigilante of taste.
But vandalism is not something I’ve heard about in this homogeneous, well-planned neighborhood. Of more concern to me has been discovering various customs and habits of our new neighbors.
As we walked more, I started to notice which of our neighbors shovel their driveways by hand, which have snowblowers, and which hire plowing services. In terms of automation and relative expense, the answer seemed to closely correspond to the way the neighbors deal with their lawns and leaves in spring, summer, and fall.
By the snow-covered mounds of frigid automobiles in certain driveways we also learned which neighbors have garages too full for their cars, or which have too many cars for their garages.
The streets were nicely and promptly plowed, which would seem to be good for those parking their cars, but no one parks on the streets of this subdivision. In fact, it’s illegal to park on the streets overnight. It’s not like Chicago after a snowstorm, where chairs reserve shoveled spaces on the street and neighbors battle for parking spots. Here the streets are wonderfully clear for no one to park on.
The last of the snow disappeared during the second week of December, the victim of a week or so of the fall-like temperatures we missed during October and November.
During each daytime walk, nonetheless, my wife and I noticed the forlorn Santa and his friends still on the ground. No rescue squad came to haul away the bodies, and no police showed up to investigate their demise.
As the solstice approached, our walks sometimes ended in twilight. It was on one such walk we made a startling discovery. Santa had come back to life. Not only Santa, but the polar bear, Frosty, the Grinch, and Winnie the Pooh. Even the Thanksgiving Turkey.
By day, we discovered, they lie apparently lifeless on their front lawn. But every night at twilight, some hidden hand turns on fans and light bulbs and the figures rise in a resurrection of shapes and forms, “giving the luster of mid-day to the objects around.”
I’m thinking now that all of these lighted lawn ornaments and inflatables are like old-time Yule logs, meant – consciously or not – to keep the spirits of darkness at bay. The displays may be modest or not; but I’d guess that even in pagan times at least one neighbor made a special effort to burn the biggest log or to decorate the biggest Tannenbaum.
So this Thursday night I’ll sit in my warm house and observe the winter solstice with – what else – a lighted fire. Even though it’s the darkest day of the year, I’ll take comfort that Santa and Frosty and Winnie the Pooh and even Tom Turkey are up and lit, keeping vigil outside. And I’ll wonder at the constancy of human nature and our seeming innate inability to rest during the darkest time of year without bright lights and reminders of renewal.
