Yesterday I decided to deploy my annual Christmas display, a subdued arrangement consisting of lighted garlands on the porch and fake greenery around the entrance and a door wreath that is admittedly getting a little threadbare.
I plugged everything in. Three of the four strings remained dark. No problem, I thought: I’ll just change fuses. I did that, and — voila! — now none of the strings would light. A variety of Christmas curses filled the tepid air over Jacksonville — like Darrin McGavin in A Christmas Story, except mine was actual profanity.
I considered bundling all the Christmas crap back into the garage and being done with it. But this morning it’s still out there.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s a metaphor for finding the Christmas spirit in an aging heart. Sometimes it just doesn’t light up when it should. And all you can do is make that pilgrimage to your inner Home Depot to get some new lights.
Which is on my to-do list for today.