Conscious Choice: Christmas and the Single Bulb Theory

December 2005 | BackWords

Christmas and the Single Bulb Theory

By Connon Barclay

ON ANY PERSONALITY TEST, I would have to rate “average” in temperament, “high” in sociability, and “very low” in willingness to conform.

These ratings, of course, can be subject to change, willy-nilly, in the suburbs, largely because of the suburban tendency to fast turnover and the ever-changing inter-relationships of the “dramatis personae ....”

But our little suburban neighborhood of 50 or so homes was quite stable for almost five years. Most of the soiled linens had been verbally washed in public, and the neighborhood actors were well-known in their roles.

I was something of a star. A contrary star. My role was “the nonconformist.” It wasn’t a constant nonconformity. In fact, the last time it showed up was just before Christmas last year.

Ordinarily, I go along. Each spring I invest as much time and money on my lawn as anyone else, for the neighborhood’s general appearance. Every Tuesday is lawn mowing day, regardless of weather or health.

Many an evening in summer, our family will barbecue dinner in our backyard, no matter what direction the wind. At times we even spend uncomfortably hot evenings in uncomfortable lawn chairs, chatting about the lovely weather while swatting away the bugs.

Come fall, all 50 homes in the neighborhood are prepared for winter on the same weekend (which always conflicts with what turns out to be the last good weekend for golf, which everyone plays.)

But then came the approach of last Christmas: The time of year when everyone goes out and decorates home and yard with enough incandescence to make the electric company’s books bulge with revenue.

Suddenly, I was the holdout. The loner. The only neighbor who steadfastly refused to put up outdoor Christmas decorations.

The Christmas spirit, to me, is not something that is measured by the number of bushes covered with light bulbs, nor by the number of reindeer that suddenly appear on the roof, noses blinking. Nor should it be judged by the size of the Kris Kringle that stands, nodding, by the front door.

A simple wreath on the door had been our family custom. But last year, our neighbors — abetted by my wife, I might add — began working on me right after Thanksgiving. They wanted me to conform. Their effort was as methodical and orchestrated as any political campaign. Downright devious at times.

The weekly Saturday morning browse at the hardware store became a period of intense peer pressure. I’d run into a neighbor there and he’d ask, “What kind of bulbs do you think would be best?” Or: “Getting your lights early this year?” It seemed they drew lots to see who’d lie in wait for me at the store. “Great sale on decorations today,” one would say. Another neighbor once even slipped a string of lights in among my other purchases. I was saved only by the clerk, who said, “These certainly can’t be yours.”

At neighborhood social gatherings, they came at me. By Dec. 10, I was battle-worn from discussions of holiday decorations and comments such as “How nice the neighborhood would look, if only you’d ....”

As Christmas neared, the neighbors’ lights began to go up.

Our address continued to be dark and bare.

Finally, embarrassment led me to retaliate. I drove to a nearby community, wearing dark glasses, and bought a small string of lights. The smallest they had.

I went home and carefully awaited the judicious moment when it was dark and no one was watching. I went outside and threw the light cord onto a bush. I put one blue bulb near the top of the shrub and then threw the rest of the bulbs away.

Back inside, I turned on the light. There, amid the crashing waves of a sea of winking, blinking, shining multi-colored incandescence, stood our house with one lone blue bulb out front, burning softly and steadily. The joy of it all made me laugh like Santa.

The laughter continued even when my wife, unsure whether I was finished with our “display” or just starting a more extensive one, stared out the window and asked, “Are you serious ?”

A few nights passed. News of my blue bulb got around the neighborhood. My wife, aware now that I was indeed finished, called a few friends and urged them to drive by to see it. They called others. Soon the blue bulb gained notoriety.

One family called and said they had visitors from out of town and asked me to turn the bulb on early so they could drive by and show it to them. The visitors wanted proof. Some children on school buses asked me to turn it on for them as they passed.

You might think that one blue bulb could never compare with the fancy decorations surrounding us. But one Friday night, I heard police sirens outside. Looking out the window, I saw a parade out there. Two neighborhood ladies, dressed up as police officers, were directing traffic. It seemed everyone in the neighborhood was driving slowly by, pausing a few moments in front of our house before being waved on. Each driver honked while passing the bulb.

When I went outside, I was besieged by neighbors, as if I were a celebrity. Flashbulbs popped, shutters clicked. Some neighbors, cameras in hand, made me pose with the light.

It seems my wife had been in on the planning of the “impromptu” parade, which had spilled over into laughter and fun and indeed the true Christmas spirit.

Celebrating the holidays in the suburbs can be very lonely for some. Many of us lived there after having been transferred by our companies away from our hometowns and relatives.

Last Christmas was joyous. Our neighborhood was brought together by that one blue bulb.

Maybe this year, I’ll make it a blinking one.

The Barclay family, which lives in Holland, Michigan, will continue their newest tradition at Christmas. They only buy each other one toy. Last year, Connon surprised his wife with a toy train set. She had always wanted one as a little girl. This year she gets an original “Dutch” candle-box-holder filled with antique Cracker Jack toys.

Have a story to tell? We’d love to have your essay (800 words) for consideration.
Write us or E-mail.

Recommend this page to a friend

Top Ten pages recommended to friends: