The neighbors across the street seem like festive folk. I’ve never talked to them — hell, after two years, I’ve never actually seen them. Their garbage magically appears on the curb; the snow and leaves are mysteriously whisked away. I believe they are middle-aged homebodies who, when needing to leave their home, scuttle out their back door and into their creaky mid-80s red Toyota, quickly, for fear of the ravages of fresh air and sunlight.
Yet I have warm, neighborly feelings towards them because of their year-round seasonal light displays that twinkle nightly in the windows of their second-floor veranda. Every month or so, a new motif: Hearts in February, eggs and bunnies in early spring, flowers in May, flags and fireworks in July, pumpkins and ghosts in October, turkeys and cornucopias in November. The light designs are evocative of decades past, with a corny garishness that would make anyone under the age of 50 wince. Witness December’s display:
This is the same display that greeted us when we moved into our home two years ago this December. I remember looking out the window on our first night here and exclaiming, “My god, the neighbors have a phallus in their window!” (And yes, I did actually use the word ‘phallus.’) Mr. P concurred that the yellow-tinged candle with the orange billow of flame did, in fact, look terribly phallic. It was unmistakable, although my archaic digital camera cannot properly render the resemblance. Whenever I look out the window in the month of December, I think: Phallus.
So tonight, I came home from work and saw that the Thanksgiving lights had been replaced by the Christmas lights. And there it was, the Christmas phallus. ‘Tis the season.
