A Light Intervention

We had an intervention of sorts here at the house at Thanksgiving. All the kids were home and it was only after serious reflection that they felt the time was right for this drastic step. Of course, it was all meant to be helpful and was only brought on by love and concern.  I didn't think anything was amiss, but apparently, the subject is always the last to be aware.  It was unanimous among the children and with my wife quietly showing support that they sat me down in the living room and surrounded me.  "Dad", the oldest began, "We don't want you to...., this is hard for all of us to say." His voice kind of petered out and then the next oldest picked up where he left off. " Dad, we know you care and you have always tried to bring light into our lives, but we just can't...." She too had trouble finishing her thought. The youngest then took a deep breath and said, "Dad.  You are not to put up the Christmas lights anymore", she blurted out before she could stop herself. "We are tired of taking bets on how many times you bounce off the ground when you fall from the ladder, tired of the Instagramed pictures of your bruised and battered body parts held up like a prized fish that you caught.  We can't let Mom take the humiliation of having our neighbours and people walking by see you hanging by your fingertips off the eavestrough or yet another December visit to the Emergency Ward. We just can't. It isn't fair on Mom, us or you".

Of course, I didn't see it in the same light. I have always viewed the hanging of Christmas lights as a delicate balance between risk and reward; a confrontation between myself and the pesky laws of physics. To me, it was a battle of man versus light, a game of one on one, mano a lighto, it was me against it.  But what I didn't see was the effect that this had on my loved ones. I guess having to deal with me shuffling along wincing with pain every time I took a step or trying to open presents with only a few working fingers, might put a hindrance on holiday celebrations. Begrudgingly, I accepted their intervention and when the time came I ceded control of my new ladder and the tangled strings of lights to my children.  If an outsider was watching through the window, they would have thought it was one of those Kumbaya moments. Everyone was holding hands, seated in a semi-circle around me with satisfied smiles on their faces, reveling in the belief that they have saved their Dad his annual bout of pain and suffering.  

In due time on a planned visit, the kids once again filled the house. This time they were aided by weeks of careful planning with a blueprint to delegate responsibilities and coordination of duties.  They consulted with all known sources of holiday ideas, gathering the best from magazines and online sites which melded with their own creative ideas. Wrapping all of this data together, they had a meticulous working theme for the house, for the tree and for the interior decorations. It wouldn't have be surprised me if they had matching outfits for all of us on Christmas morning.  

With all of this all planned out, they headed downstairs to find the boxes of the Christmas decorations. Coming back up with more boxes than I seem to remember taking down, they opened them all looking for the exterior lights.  Their faces were painted with enthusiasm as they worked together closely, singing along with Nat King Cole as he vocalized about roasting chestnuts by the open fire. The living room was soon covered by strings of red, blue and green lights as they checked all the connections and bulbs to ensure there were no faulty ones. They then bundled up and dragged the lights outside and started to work.

For once, I sat in the warmth of the house, a mug of hot chocolate in my hand and stood looking out the front window, occasionally knocking on the window to get their attention and then pointing to something that wasn't quite right.  To be honest, I knocked more than occasionally; it would seem my definition of occasional is a little more elastic than most.  However, from the look on their faces you would have thought I was knocking as much as a woodpecker on an elm tree.  I could see befuddlement crease their brows as they tried to figure out just how those light hangers worked and frustrations as they snapped in two from the cold; referring of course to the hangers and not the children.

As the sun began to set I could see what started as a display of sibling unity was devolving into a sibling rivalry so standard in most family dynamics when working together. But putting this growing frustration aside, they finished their task and tumbled into the house; noses and fingers cold, but with a satisfied look on their faces.  Eager to show off their work, we all threw on our coats and went outside. Standing out front, the lights were plugged in and the house lit up. I have to admit, they did a good job. There were no accidents, no injuries and no battle between humans and gravity. Where's the fun it that?

Pain.... and Really No Gain

Pain is just the way a body says to the brain, "Don't do that again".  George Santayana is quoted as saying, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it". I am sure you don't need a road map to tell how these two items might be related.  

After the elongated and seemingly endless winter we had, I finally took down the Christmas lights well after the time I usually do. In this case it was bordering on May. I say I took down the lights, because in most instances the lights have always taken me down. I have always had a complicated relationship when it comes to Christmas lights. I love having them up as they kind of chase away those early darkness blues that befalls us throughout the winter. To be honest, I am one of those people who have a tendency to leave lights up well after Christmas, just to have a little colour in the neighbourhood. 

Since the kids have moved out I have needed to reacquaint myself with a lot of the household chores, that parents usually assign to their kids. Chores like raking leaves, mowing the lawn, shoveling the driveway and yes, tackling the Christmas lights. This past year I was putting up the lights on a Friday night and against all the advice given to me by my wife, I decided this was a task that must be taken alone. My daughter Catherine was coming home the following day, but patience has never been a virtue with me, and apparently on that particular day, my math skills also abandoned me. 

 Mathematically, it should have been quite obvious; take a 12 foot high eavestrough, subtract a 5 foot step ladder and that leaves a 7 foot difference.  I am a shade under 5'10" which leaves a good stretch and then some to successfully put up lights.  

Even with that, things were going well. I moved along the front of the house in a steady and safe progression. Steady and safe that is, until I reached the corner of the house where there is a tangle of juniper mayhem. Still, on I forged with complete confidence. I guess if you were sitting inside the house, safe and warm and looking out upon the scene, disaster might have been easily forecasted, but when in the thick of things, the situation couldn't have been rosier. 

Granted, standing on the top step of a ladder that you are not supposed to stand on, and granted that balancing a step ladder over a tangle of branches might not have been the best of ideas. But I had that perfect balance between physics and falling; a yin and yang between success and failure. I was like a race car driver just on the edge of losing control. In hindsight and in my opinion, it was neither myself nor my physics that failed that night. It can only be attributed to an earthquake or one of those frost quakes we heard about all winter. The end result was my perfect balance was no longer perfect as the ladder and myself parted company.  

It wasn't the fall per se that did any damage, like the old saying goes, "it isn't the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop". I was near a tree so the boughs kind of cushioned/speared me as I went by. Once I had landed among the tangle of branches, I bounced back to my feet with the same aplomb as Inspector Clouseau. I did a quick check of body parts and all seemed functional. Except looking down at my gloved hand was like looking at an over-the-counter headache remedy commercial. I had little cartoon lightning bolts radiating away from my hand.  I was quite hesitant to pull my glove off, because something did not feel right and those little lightning bolts were a dead giveaway.  

I am unsure if it was morbid curiosity or a need for confirmation, but I did pull of my glove. There was no blood, no broken skin, but it was like what happen to Wile E. Coyote when hit on the head with a frying pan and he ends up with a frying pan shaped head. Somehow, and I don't know how, but somehow, on my way down, my finger got caught in the ladder and the top part of my finger, for the lack of a better medical term, got squished. 

I sheepishly made my way indoors, trying to hide this pancake shaped finger from what I knew would be a very long, "I told you so" session.  If that made it sound like I have been through this before with my wife, then the right message was passed along, if not please refer to the opening paragraph. 

After so many years of marriage and after almost an equal amount of injuries, there was not a lot of outpouring of concern or empathy from my wife; it was replaced with a much more practical, "What did you do now?" I answered in a meek tone that once again I was dancing with the devil and once again the devil won out. This did not elicit the sympathy I was hoping for. At first I thought of going to go to Emergency, but then just decided to ice it, take some ibuprofen and wait a few hours to see what would happen. No point overburdening the healthcare system, right?  Eventually, after a few weeks, the shape did return to my finger and a nice rosy pink hue became the norm instead of the blackish, bluish yellow colour.

As mentioned, my very practical wife instead of lecturing me and trying to teach an old dog new and safer tricks instead focused on doing something to prevent history from repeating itself, as I apparently lack this ability. She surprised me the other day with a convertible ladder. This is the type of ladder that can be used as a step ladder, an extension ladder, a saw horse and everything in between. It has more positions than the Kama Sutra and is just as difficult to master. But master it, I will and the next time I dance with the devil, I'll be leading... at least that's the plan.