A Chilling Yuletide Tail
My oldest brother Paul is the Clark Griswold of his block. He does not use hollow reindeer on his roof or any other kitschy yard props from Frankenmuth, but he has definitely added an “s” to Genesis 1:3. “Let there be lights.” He used to trim every architectural detail with perfect lines of white lights. It was pretty, but it looked like a giant connect-the-dot picture; now he trims the entire house with over 20,000 icicle lights, and it looks like a Thomas Kinkaid cottage…on steroids. Actually, the effect is quite breathtaking. Total strangers have mailed him thank-you notes for his contribution to the holidays.
When Paul wired this house, he put outlets in the soffits just for Christmas lights. They’re controlled by a timer in the garage. Edison would be proud. The actual hanging of lights takes an entire Saturday, but year after year, Paul finds solace in this ritual and joy in watching the house light up on cue each night.
One particular evening, after a heavy snowfall, Paul arrived home from work a little late, and the lights were already aglow as he pulled into the drive. He sat there in his car listening to the radio. It was the piano theme that Schroeder plays from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (This song always makes Paul shrug his shoulders and bob his head like that one unnamed character dancing with the Peanuts gang on the stage.) He stepped out of car still dancing then quickly stopped in his tracks. There on the roof was an ugly unglaring flaw: the icicle lights along the large dormer of Katelyn’s room—were out!
Now, if you’re like me, you might be thinking: “Big deal; one string of lights; let it go till next year. Who’s gunna notice?” It’s sort of like the Venus De Milo with her arms broken off—after a while, she looks fine? But to a luminary like Paul, it was as if he were standing on Ellis Island and Lady Liberty’s torch had gone out, which meant that the huddled masses yearning to breathe free would be left tempest tossed on their teeming shores. Paul shook his head. “Not on my watch, they won’t,” he sighed, and his breath rose like Marlboro smoke in the frosty air.
From inside the garage, he grabbed his aluminum ladder and a back-up set of lights. The ladder clanked against the roof as he scaled up to the snow-covered slope and then up and over to the dormer. He crawled to the front and plopped down as if riding a huge doghouse. Leaning slightly forward, he gently tugged the dead lights from the clips, and let the them drop fifteen feet below in a silent puff of white.
He took off his gloves and pulled the new bundle of lights from his jacket. (No matter how carefully miniature lights are put away, untangling them is like trying to shake a wadded string puppet from a Slinky.) Eventually, the long strand dangled down in front of him, and he pulled half of it up and over his shoulder like a scarf to keep it out of his way.
The outlet was way down to his left, barely within reach, and stretching down to it required extending his right leg as a counterbalance. He rehearsed the move once in his mind, took a deep breath, and reached as far down as he could to his left. “Can’t… reach…plug, Robin,” he said in an Adam West “Batman” voice. [Note of explanation: When it comes to heights, there are basically three kinds of people: those who avoid any height above a step stool; those who actually enjoy heights like iron workers and tree toppers; and those who are willing to work at heights but talk to themselves out loud whenever they do. Like many boys of the 60’s, my brothers and I tend to be in this third group. Adam West’s version of the Caped Crusader was a profound erudite to the ever-astonished Boy Wonder, but whenever the two of them were in distress, West’s lines came out in breathy spurts as if he were passing a kidney stone.] “Must…light…torch…Robin….Almost…there!” Finally, the plug went into the socket, and the lights lit up. “Yes!” His outstretched right leg began to shake with fatigue as his numb fingers slid the wire into the first and second clips. “Huddled masses…yearning…to breath…free, Robin.”
The upper clips could be easily reached and, therefore, prompted no Batman lines. Before moving down to his right, he just rested for a moment and warmed his bare hands up under the waistband of his jacket. Hunched over as he was high in the cold night air, he suddenly felt like Quasimodo on a gargoyle amid the spires of Notre Dame—in a U of M jacket! The irony of this image made him shiver, but his hands were warm enough to continue, so he stretched down toward the remaining clips. “Must…finish… job…Robin." His trembling hand pressed the wire into the last clip, and he pulled his body up with a sigh. His seat was numb, and his eyes watered in the cold as he looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since he pulled into the driveway. “Not bad,” he thought to himself in a normal voice.
Wafting up through the pores of the house was the delicious aroma of his wife’s cooking. It then dawned on him that no one inside even knew he was home. “Time for supper,” he thought as he put on his gloves and tried to scoot backward, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to move. Maybe he was just too numb to feel it. He looked down and pushed back again but didn’t budge. “What in the world…?” he thought as he pulled the inseam of his leg back and saw that the snow he sat in had melted and his seat was frozen fast to the roof like the proverbial tongue on a flagpole.
He tried using the roof ridge as a pummel horse, but the length of his arms barely raised him. He tried wriggling himself up to stand, but his legs had no strength in this position. He tried rocking forward but could only go so far, so he leaned back to see if that would peel—Whoa!—he misjudged his center of gravity and dropped flat on his back, limbs flailing and body tottering until he pressed his arms down like outriggers.
His legs were now dangling uselessly over the end of the roof and his tired stomach muscles could barely hold them up. He tried breeching his back to raise his seat—that didn’t work—so he began thrusting his hips up at various angles until he just twitched there like an exhausted break dancer who’d run out of moves.
The problem, he now understood, was that the relaxed-fit of his jeans allowed him to move while the frozen fabric held firm. In fact, he was balancing, in part, by the seat of his pants, and he realized that one of two outcomes seemed inevitable: If they did break free, he could see himself sliding in slow motion off the side of the dormer and over the edge of the roof. On the other hand, if his pants stayed stuck, he might end up in tomorrow’s news: “Oakland Man Freezes Butt to Roof. Film at eleven.” It was that thought that kept him from calling for help, but just then he heard the faint sound of little girls laughing in the bedroom below. He began pounding on the roof to get their attention, and a moment later, the two of them were on the porch walk shouting up at their daddy.
“Hi, Daddy, when did you get home?” Lauren shouted.
“A little while ago. Can you go get Mommy?”
“We thought Santa came early. Whutcha doing up there?” asked Katelyn.
“I’m fixing the lights. Go get Mom, please.”
“She’s making supper,” Katelyn announced, “and we set the table.”
“I even made name cards,” Lauren added proudly.
“That’s nice, Sweetie, but my rear-end’s frozen to the roof, and if you don’t get Mommy, you’ll have to bring Daddy’s dinner up here.” Paul’s tone prompted no more questions. The girls ran inside, leaving the front door open. He could hear them shouting in the kitchen. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy’s frozen to the roof. We thought it might be Santa, but it was only Daddy, and he can’t get down.” Dee turned off the oven and followed the girls to the front yard.
When she saw her husband up on the roof in a strange state of rest, she covered her mouth in shock (and to hide a bit of a smile).
“Hi, Honey. The girls thought Santa came early.” She said, testing his mood.
“Ho Ho Ho” he moaned without moving, too tired to sound angry.
“Are you really frozen to the roof?” she asked holding back a laugh.
“No, I thought I’d just come home after work and take a nap up here!” He tried to sound angry, but Dee could tell he was approaching that fine line men cross when they’re almost ready to admit that their current predicament will someday strike them as funny. Recognizing “funny someday” moments while they’re fresh is the secret to marital bliss.
“Well, can you take off your pants?” Dee suggested without really thinking.
“Yea, right, Honey. First of all, I can’t even reach my shoes, so my pants would be stuck at my ankles right about the time our neighbors come by walking their dog—besides… I’m so numb I can’t tell if my underwear isn’t frozen to the jeans.”
“Oh...well, that pretty much rules out that idea.” She paused then added, “I’ve heard of freezing your buns off,” she quipped, “but I never heard of freezin’ ‘em on.”
She laughed. Then Paul laughed. Then the girls felt free to join in.
“Now if we could stop laughing for a minute, I have an idea I think will work.” Dee tried to listen without smiling. “Just bring the ladder over to this side of the dormer and climb up high enough to see what I’m doing. Katelyn, you stand on the bottom rung, and Lauren, you hold the ladder with all your might. Okay?”
The girls did as he asked, and he continued his instructions. “I’m going to roll real hard to this side of the dormer. That should peel me free; then I’ll just grab the roof, but I need you there just in case….”
“Okay, and I’m here to stop you…just in case.” Dee promised bravely.
Paul rehearsed the move in his head, and then gave his right leg a hard roundhouse kick, twisting his body to his left at the same time--a brief ripping tug jerked his seat then released, and he rolled to his stomach and pulled himself up to the peak in a cloud of stirred-up snow.
“Are you all right?” Dee asked, smiling through the rungs of the ladder.
“Yea, fine.” He tried to look nonchalant, but was clearly relieved.
“Looks like you ripped your back pocket,” she said.
“Better my pants than the shingles. Just let me just catch my breath a minute before I come down.”
When Paul’s feet felt solid earth he turned, leaned against the ladder, let out a long hard breath, and smiled. The little girls tugged their dad toward the porch where they all stomped the snow from their shoes and slippers.
“Leave the ladder there for now. Let’s eat,” said Dee.
“Sounds good. Smells even better! What’s for supper anyway?” he asked.
She giggled as they stepped into the house and closed the door.
“Are you sure you want to know?” she teased.
Before he could answer, she gave him his “welcome home” kiss.
“What?” he asked between kisses. “What’s so funny about supper?”
She patted his cold seat with both hands and laughed.
“It’s your favorite— Rump roast.” She said, eyes wide.
Paul just smiled. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, Schroeder began playing his familiar theme, and all was well with the world.
.
.
.
Copyright: December 2004 TRK
When Paul wired this house, he put outlets in the soffits just for Christmas lights. They’re controlled by a timer in the garage. Edison would be proud. The actual hanging of lights takes an entire Saturday, but year after year, Paul finds solace in this ritual and joy in watching the house light up on cue each night.
One particular evening, after a heavy snowfall, Paul arrived home from work a little late, and the lights were already aglow as he pulled into the drive. He sat there in his car listening to the radio. It was the piano theme that Schroeder plays from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (This song always makes Paul shrug his shoulders and bob his head like that one unnamed character dancing with the Peanuts gang on the stage.) He stepped out of car still dancing then quickly stopped in his tracks. There on the roof was an ugly unglaring flaw: the icicle lights along the large dormer of Katelyn’s room—were out!
Now, if you’re like me, you might be thinking: “Big deal; one string of lights; let it go till next year. Who’s gunna notice?” It’s sort of like the Venus De Milo with her arms broken off—after a while, she looks fine? But to a luminary like Paul, it was as if he were standing on Ellis Island and Lady Liberty’s torch had gone out, which meant that the huddled masses yearning to breathe free would be left tempest tossed on their teeming shores. Paul shook his head. “Not on my watch, they won’t,” he sighed, and his breath rose like Marlboro smoke in the frosty air.
From inside the garage, he grabbed his aluminum ladder and a back-up set of lights. The ladder clanked against the roof as he scaled up to the snow-covered slope and then up and over to the dormer. He crawled to the front and plopped down as if riding a huge doghouse. Leaning slightly forward, he gently tugged the dead lights from the clips, and let the them drop fifteen feet below in a silent puff of white.
He took off his gloves and pulled the new bundle of lights from his jacket. (No matter how carefully miniature lights are put away, untangling them is like trying to shake a wadded string puppet from a Slinky.) Eventually, the long strand dangled down in front of him, and he pulled half of it up and over his shoulder like a scarf to keep it out of his way.
The outlet was way down to his left, barely within reach, and stretching down to it required extending his right leg as a counterbalance. He rehearsed the move once in his mind, took a deep breath, and reached as far down as he could to his left. “Can’t… reach…plug, Robin,” he said in an Adam West “Batman” voice. [Note of explanation: When it comes to heights, there are basically three kinds of people: those who avoid any height above a step stool; those who actually enjoy heights like iron workers and tree toppers; and those who are willing to work at heights but talk to themselves out loud whenever they do. Like many boys of the 60’s, my brothers and I tend to be in this third group. Adam West’s version of the Caped Crusader was a profound erudite to the ever-astonished Boy Wonder, but whenever the two of them were in distress, West’s lines came out in breathy spurts as if he were passing a kidney stone.] “Must…light…torch…Robin….Almost…there!” Finally, the plug went into the socket, and the lights lit up. “Yes!” His outstretched right leg began to shake with fatigue as his numb fingers slid the wire into the first and second clips. “Huddled masses…yearning…to breath…free, Robin.”
The upper clips could be easily reached and, therefore, prompted no Batman lines. Before moving down to his right, he just rested for a moment and warmed his bare hands up under the waistband of his jacket. Hunched over as he was high in the cold night air, he suddenly felt like Quasimodo on a gargoyle amid the spires of Notre Dame—in a U of M jacket! The irony of this image made him shiver, but his hands were warm enough to continue, so he stretched down toward the remaining clips. “Must…finish… job…Robin." His trembling hand pressed the wire into the last clip, and he pulled his body up with a sigh. His seat was numb, and his eyes watered in the cold as he looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since he pulled into the driveway. “Not bad,” he thought to himself in a normal voice.
Wafting up through the pores of the house was the delicious aroma of his wife’s cooking. It then dawned on him that no one inside even knew he was home. “Time for supper,” he thought as he put on his gloves and tried to scoot backward, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to move. Maybe he was just too numb to feel it. He looked down and pushed back again but didn’t budge. “What in the world…?” he thought as he pulled the inseam of his leg back and saw that the snow he sat in had melted and his seat was frozen fast to the roof like the proverbial tongue on a flagpole.
He tried using the roof ridge as a pummel horse, but the length of his arms barely raised him. He tried wriggling himself up to stand, but his legs had no strength in this position. He tried rocking forward but could only go so far, so he leaned back to see if that would peel—Whoa!—he misjudged his center of gravity and dropped flat on his back, limbs flailing and body tottering until he pressed his arms down like outriggers.
His legs were now dangling uselessly over the end of the roof and his tired stomach muscles could barely hold them up. He tried breeching his back to raise his seat—that didn’t work—so he began thrusting his hips up at various angles until he just twitched there like an exhausted break dancer who’d run out of moves.
The problem, he now understood, was that the relaxed-fit of his jeans allowed him to move while the frozen fabric held firm. In fact, he was balancing, in part, by the seat of his pants, and he realized that one of two outcomes seemed inevitable: If they did break free, he could see himself sliding in slow motion off the side of the dormer and over the edge of the roof. On the other hand, if his pants stayed stuck, he might end up in tomorrow’s news: “Oakland Man Freezes Butt to Roof. Film at eleven.” It was that thought that kept him from calling for help, but just then he heard the faint sound of little girls laughing in the bedroom below. He began pounding on the roof to get their attention, and a moment later, the two of them were on the porch walk shouting up at their daddy.
“Hi, Daddy, when did you get home?” Lauren shouted.
“A little while ago. Can you go get Mommy?”
“We thought Santa came early. Whutcha doing up there?” asked Katelyn.
“I’m fixing the lights. Go get Mom, please.”
“She’s making supper,” Katelyn announced, “and we set the table.”
“I even made name cards,” Lauren added proudly.
“That’s nice, Sweetie, but my rear-end’s frozen to the roof, and if you don’t get Mommy, you’ll have to bring Daddy’s dinner up here.” Paul’s tone prompted no more questions. The girls ran inside, leaving the front door open. He could hear them shouting in the kitchen. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy’s frozen to the roof. We thought it might be Santa, but it was only Daddy, and he can’t get down.” Dee turned off the oven and followed the girls to the front yard.
When she saw her husband up on the roof in a strange state of rest, she covered her mouth in shock (and to hide a bit of a smile).
“Hi, Honey. The girls thought Santa came early.” She said, testing his mood.
“Ho Ho Ho” he moaned without moving, too tired to sound angry.
“Are you really frozen to the roof?” she asked holding back a laugh.
“No, I thought I’d just come home after work and take a nap up here!” He tried to sound angry, but Dee could tell he was approaching that fine line men cross when they’re almost ready to admit that their current predicament will someday strike them as funny. Recognizing “funny someday” moments while they’re fresh is the secret to marital bliss.
“Well, can you take off your pants?” Dee suggested without really thinking.
“Yea, right, Honey. First of all, I can’t even reach my shoes, so my pants would be stuck at my ankles right about the time our neighbors come by walking their dog—besides… I’m so numb I can’t tell if my underwear isn’t frozen to the jeans.”
“Oh...well, that pretty much rules out that idea.” She paused then added, “I’ve heard of freezing your buns off,” she quipped, “but I never heard of freezin’ ‘em on.”
She laughed. Then Paul laughed. Then the girls felt free to join in.
“Now if we could stop laughing for a minute, I have an idea I think will work.” Dee tried to listen without smiling. “Just bring the ladder over to this side of the dormer and climb up high enough to see what I’m doing. Katelyn, you stand on the bottom rung, and Lauren, you hold the ladder with all your might. Okay?”
The girls did as he asked, and he continued his instructions. “I’m going to roll real hard to this side of the dormer. That should peel me free; then I’ll just grab the roof, but I need you there just in case….”
“Okay, and I’m here to stop you…just in case.” Dee promised bravely.
Paul rehearsed the move in his head, and then gave his right leg a hard roundhouse kick, twisting his body to his left at the same time--a brief ripping tug jerked his seat then released, and he rolled to his stomach and pulled himself up to the peak in a cloud of stirred-up snow.
“Are you all right?” Dee asked, smiling through the rungs of the ladder.
“Yea, fine.” He tried to look nonchalant, but was clearly relieved.
“Looks like you ripped your back pocket,” she said.
“Better my pants than the shingles. Just let me just catch my breath a minute before I come down.”
When Paul’s feet felt solid earth he turned, leaned against the ladder, let out a long hard breath, and smiled. The little girls tugged their dad toward the porch where they all stomped the snow from their shoes and slippers.
“Leave the ladder there for now. Let’s eat,” said Dee.
“Sounds good. Smells even better! What’s for supper anyway?” he asked.
She giggled as they stepped into the house and closed the door.
“Are you sure you want to know?” she teased.
Before he could answer, she gave him his “welcome home” kiss.
“What?” he asked between kisses. “What’s so funny about supper?”
She patted his cold seat with both hands and laughed.
“It’s your favorite— Rump roast.” She said, eyes wide.
Paul just smiled. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, Schroeder began playing his familiar theme, and all was well with the world.
.
.
.
Copyright: December 2004 TRK
posted by .Tom Kapanka | 9:11 PM
2 Comments:
After reading the amusing novella "Let There Be Lights", I had to write a comment. I happen to be the person tale was about. Although great liberty was taken in the story, it is basically accurate. I will say however, the enhancements to the tale only serve to enlighten the readers as to how most of the projects I undertake proceed. There is always a little adventure that is unexpected that truly enriches my life as well as those near and dear to me.
I must also thank the writer of the tome, (my brother), for not using my name. The anonimity keeps the neighbors from my door asking for a re-enactment. I take great pride in my "Griswold like" display and I wouldn't want be thought of as the village idiot who, Quasimodo like, hangs from the roof of the house, but instead of ringing the cathedral bells, waves Christmas lights in the breeze for all to see.
I will admit on occasion, a passer-by will leave a little note in my mailbox,asking what happened to the unsual display I had with the strangely attired Santa that flailed about on the roof trying to hang lights,while confused carollers yelled at him, " You're too early, get down from the roof, dinner's almost ready". About the only thing that would add to my humility would be for the gathering neighbors to take me to the village center for a public flogging as a prelude to the lighting of the village Christmas tree, there by using me as an example of the wrong way to decorate one's house. "Never, ever freeze your butt to your house. It's unseemly".
Now every year as I begin the task of decorating my house, my wife will send Katelyn and Lauren outside to ask, " Are you going to freeze your butt to the roof this year too"? I know my wife thinks this the stuff memories are made of, but I also think she likes the fact that I am probably the only man in the state of Michigan who has managed to freeze the seat of his pants to his roof. She must be so proud.
As we prepare the rump roast for the annual commemeration of the "event", let me take this opportunity to wish everyone who visits this site a "Merry Christmas". If some of you experience a little brown out about 5:00 P.M. every evening, don't be alarmed, it's just the timers turning on the lights. And if you're in the area around Christmastime, just follow the golden glow in the sky, the one that looks like the city of Rochester Hills is on fire, and enjoy the lights!!!
PDK
Paul,
It was great to see you New Year's Eve. I hope you had another great year of lights.
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