Christmas -- 365 days a year

I noticed the lights within the first few weeks of moving to Cupertino. Then a gradual realization affirmed itself each time I walked my dog: Every fifth house in our new neighborhood featured a single strand of holiday lights dangling above the ubiquitous two-car garage door. And all the bulbs on all the icicles remained unlit whether I walked Wolfie during the day or well after dark. 

That first observation took place in early January. Yes, the winter holiday season had come and gone, but the festive spirit lingered, I surmised.

By February, our potty walk route had expanded, and we now passed a two-story split level showcasing a holiday wreath affixed to a gable.

Just a bunch of lazy folks who can’t be bothered to pack it all away, I thought. 

In March, I noted a 6-foot plastic pine prominently displayed in the bay window of a gray neo-eclectic.

Yikes, I thought. Someone ought to buy these folks a calendar. 

And then April. May, June. The lights and holiday decorations remained in place. 

Who are these people? I needed to know. Did the lights and décor signify Christmas or New Year’s or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year, or were my neighbors celebrating some kind of year-round holiday I knew nothing about? 

In July, the 1,800-square-foot midcentury across the street sold for $1.8 million. Did the sale price include the 2-foot plastic candy canes in the front yard? I wondered.

I broached the subject when conversation lulled at the neighborhood National Night Out potluck.

“I noticed every fifth house in this neighborhood has Christmas lights hanging above the garage,” I said. “Is that a ‘thing?’” 

“No, that’s not a ‘thing,’” said Mary Anne, the cardiac nurse. Her house, I knew, was strand-less, but her quick dismissal had me puzzled: What was she hiding?

I pointed out the offenders to Matt as we walked Wolfie together, to Kelsey as we rollerbladed and to my mom as we strolled to a nearby restaurant. They smiled politely, but seemed thankful when I stopped counting aloud. 

What Mom and Matt knew (and Kelsey would surely surmise) is I’m a Scrooge-ist when it comes to Christmas, the holiday most commonly associated with light strands. I resent the pressure, the hurry-up-and-purchase-expensive-junk-nobody-in-my-family-actually-needs mentality. I promptly vacate any shop that pipes Christmas tunes over the P.A. system. 

“Buy! Buy! Buy!” Mariah and Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes seem to chant. 

The slightest ding of a silver bell or mere coupling of red and green on any day of the year other than December 25 instantly splits the shirt on my back and turns my skin a shade of split pea soup. I like my seasons segregated -- so I can fully enjoy each one separately – and I don’t appreciate Christmas’ encroaching on my fall – or my summer. No occasion is special if it’s celebrated 365 days a year.

So yes, this blatant disregard for poor August vexes me to no end, and I will do my utmost to bring this disturbing trend to light (Ha, pun!) and save still-strandless neighborhoods like yours. Starting with this blog post.