That Annual Itch

It's hard to find the kind of Christmas lights that make me tingle on the campus of an Episcopalian college. My staunchly Episcopal mother was a lights snob: only white and only tiny (never blinking or synching); all others were "tacky." Tiny white is pretty much what folks around do, if they do anything at all. (I can think of three exceptions, one down the street. But only three.)

Oh, how I love lights.

In New Orleans' City Park, a light fantasia reigns every Christmas season. Even without children in tow, folks find Celebration in the Oaks inspiring. When I lived in the city, I drove St. Charles every evening and marveled at the crisp white lights draped over stately mansions. Once, a friend who lived in the same Metairie neighborhood as Al Copeland, flashy founder of Popeye's, took me to see his display. He spent a fortune on Christmas decorations of the kind not only my mother would pooh-pooh, but of the kind even I found over-the-top tacky.

Another Christmas, when I was living in Birmingham, I was invited to a Christmas party that included a tour of Gardendale lights, including one house that lit up the entire neighborhood. Every window opened onto a special enclosed scene, and music blared. I would not have wanted to live near that house, but I sure enjoyed seeing it.

Tonight, feeling Christmas-lights bereft, I drove out of the parking lot at the Pig. Instead of pulling up to the highway, I stopped just short. The Amish Hippie's lights and light rain made just the kind of scene I have been missing.

Maybe I should drive over every night, just to scratch that Christmas itch.