For weeks now, I’ve watched holiday decorations spring up on both sides of the river. People have taken full advantage of the unseasonably warm November we had to get outside decorations done.
Not us. I guarantee it will be freezing or below by the time we get ours up.
Take this morning for instance. It’s all of 26 with a gusting wind that is downright bone-chilling. Brrrr. December arrives, as if on cue.
It’s going to be a busy month. Lots going on at work. Lots going on at home. Add the holidays into the mix. And, of course, preparations for that wonderful annual event that is Crop Camp.
I’m tired just thinking about it all. Part of me wants to say, “Wake me when Christmas is over.”
But despite all of the activity, and even the cold, I’m buoyed by one thing: the lights. It doesn’t matter whether they’re clear or colored, blinking or stationery, I’m completely enamored with them. Apparently, I have been all my life.
The mother says that during my very first Christmas season, when I was barely five months old, I could be in the middle of a horrendous crying fit but if she took me in by the tree, it would cease at once. I’m happy to report that they still have that kind of calming effect.
As the lights burn bright in Kiener Plaza or put the huge, multi-story tree at the Metro Building aglow, or even twinkle above the entry to my own piece of downtown, I’ll be watching them. (Right now, I’m looking at the tree of huge strands of lights atop the U.S. Bank building. I’m seeing it from a distance right now. In just a few minutes, I’ll be staring at it from a window just a few blocks away.
Yeah. The lights. They’re worth getting out of bed for.