Cool Lights

(This, my one and only newspaper column, ran on Christmas Eve early in my career. It came straight from the heart—about Christmases with my father, who would never know I went on to become a writer yet this many years later is still a source of inspiration.)

It was the year her father bought "cool lights" for the Christmas tree that the holidays changed for her family. That was six years ago.

Twelve strings of them are now strung on the tree, replacing light sets so old that paint had chipped off some of the bulbs, while the cords were frayed in places. Had her father been given a choice, he probably would have preferred not to replace the old light sets. They had been in the family for years, having hung on Christmas trees when he was a little boy. He was always sentimental. But because of the old light sets, he was always afraid the damn thing would catch fire.

Compulsively, he would check a bulb or two, testing them between his thumb and index finger. "I don't want to take the chance," he'd say. Then he'd pull the plug.

And his daughter would whine, "What's the point of having a Christmas tree if you can't keep it lit?" Reason. That's what she'd use as she got older. When she was a little girl, though, she'd cry till her face turned red and stomp her feet. Tantrum.

"Feel how hot those bulbs are," he'd yell, daring her to check them herself, if she didn't believe him, and expecting that she wouldn't. She would think to herself, "If they aren't hot, I can keep the tree lit."

So she'd take him up on his dare, testing a bulb between her thumb and index finger and holding her breath. Indeed, they were hot. And her father had the proof; the tips of her fingers were beginning to bubble. Stubbornness, defiance and the sting of hot Christmas tree bulbs had earned her two blisters every December. It was tradition.

What also was tradition was his giving in: She could keep the tree lit for as long as she was willing to sit and watch it. His was not defeat, but acquiescence. Her father knew that she liked to sit in front of the tree for hours and just dream. Those Christmas tree bulbs — the ones that worried him and stung her fingers — cast a glow that made her feel safe. The tree, she knew, posed no danger. It was a friend.

She tried to keep her visits short, unplugging the tree in an effort to ease her father's anxiety. Besides, she would have all night Christmas Eve to enjoy the lights. That was the one night when he seemed able to put the threat of the hot bulbs out of his mind. There was always so much else going on—activities that had become as traditional as the debate over hot bulbs.

"Tell your father to get down here and help me if he wants me to get dinner on the table. He was supposed to be here a half-hour ago. And tell him to bring down the scissors when he comes," ordered her grandmother, who was in the basement cleaning squid in the stationary tubs. "I've got to get these squid cleaned or we'll be late to Mass."

Cleaning squid was one of the family's cruder Christmas Eve rituals, but one that fascinated her. She loved to watch her father and grandmother cleaning the slimy, pale creatures. The process was not difficult, just tedious. Her father and grandmother would stand for hours, peeling away the filmy skin, slicing them up the back with a pair of scissors and then popping off the head and horns.

More interesting than watching the gruesome process was listening to their conversation—crazy and loving conversation that went on during any project that her father and grandmother worked on together.

He'd tease a lot. And she'd get mad.             

He'd purposely hang the clothesline too high, telling her the neighbors would enjoy seeing an old lady standing on her tiptoes and showing off her panties. And she'd slap him. He'd tell her the Band-Aid from his finger was missing as they were grinding sausage: "We might have to slit all these sausage casings, Mom." And she'd bless herself. He'd use her good sewing scissors to clean the squid. And she'd holler at him, saying she didn't know how his wife and daughter could live with him.

Living with him, however, was easy. Daily routines were never routine. Every day, his truck would pull into the drive. A fast beep. The door would open and he'd drop his lunchbox on the stairway. A whistle to let them know he was home. She'd come to the door. His hat would be pulled low over his forehead and little curls would peek out at his nape. He smelled of freshly sawed two-by-fours and dried cement mix. "Where's your mother," he'd ask. When he had their attention, her father—part scavenger, part storyteller—would have something to share with them. Once it was a roach clip pinned to his hat that had been given to him by some college kids. He had caught them smoking pot under a bridge where he was doing construction. Other times, it was flowers that he had seen growing on the side of the road and picked for his wife and daughter.

It was that kind of story she would recount in her mind as she stared at the Christmas tree—stories of everyday life and everyday love among her family during the holidays and all year long. Lots of hollering. Lots of teasing. And lots of loving. That's why she felt safe. And that's why the Christmas tree was a friend.

Knowing that, and perhaps knowing that Christmas six years ago would be his last, her father bought "cool lights" for the tree. He was always afraid the damn thing would catch fire.

And on Christmases following, it was her brief temptation to keep the tree unplugged when no one was sitting in front of it. She had her father's same sense of sentimentality. She missed the chipped, hot bulbs and her blistered fingers. She missed her father. There were moments, at first, when she hated the cool lights.

But the tree was intended by her father to be kept lit. Her family was intended by her father to be kept safe. Christmases, and life, were intended by her father to be celebrated. And memories were intended by her father to be treasured, never mourned.