Christmas, Bloody Christmas

Farmer H decreed that the Mansion would be draped in Christmas decorations by the end of today. There must be something about a 67-degree Saturday that brings out his Christmas spirit. In their shirtsleeves, #1 and The Pony dragged Farmer H's light show into place. Or as #1 referred to them: the really crappy decorations. He is right, you know. I can make excuses for the plastic light-up Santa and snowman, because they used to reside on my grandma's front porch. I wanted a little something from my childhood to pass on to my spawn. But the rest of the crappy decorations are all Farmer H's doings. I don't know where he got some of them. There are foot-high Santas and snowmen who sit on spikes with a light up their butt. There are snowflakes on spikes that Farmer H arranges with surgical precision. There are giant balls to hang on the cedar tree by the driveway.

The #1 son replaced about 20 lights in the string that we leave up around the front porch all year. Most chain gang workers (which is what he called himself and The Pony--Dad's chain gang) would have gotten a ladder. Not #1. He brought out a kitchen chair, set it with two legs on the edge of the porch, and climbed up to lean out over the yawning abyss to reach the light bulbs.

The Pony was injured in a freak lighting ceremony. Farmer H plugged in a string of lights and told The Pony to unscrew one of them. The Pony promptly broke the bulb, and shed his red, red blood all over the porch until he was told to hang his hand over the rail by the fish pond until Farmer H could get a band-aid. Then, adding insult to injury, Farmer H made the little chain gangster wipe up his own spilled blood with a paper towel, and commented, "Yeah, I should have remembered--I always break those lights trying to get them out."

And another holiday display is born.