Winter Lights

As you can see by this photo, Carson Valley folks LOVE holiday lights, but they usually wait until after Thanksgiving to go all out. On Veteran's Day, as we drove to our favorite sushi place, we spotted TWO Christmas trees already. We can only chalk this up to people's need for Winter Lights to boost their spirits in this dark and troubled world. It's a custom Jeff and I first noticed while living in the redwood forest of Boulder Creek, CA. Since then, we've kept our winter lights glowing until March. By then, the days are noticeably longer and the ice is melting from the land as well as our hearts.

---

Winter Lights

On the day after Solstice, the extra two minutes of sunlight hardly makes a dent in the darkness. With the wall of the Carson Range looming upward to the west of us, sunset occurs shortly after 4 p.m.; but twilight lasts almost a half hour longer. The short winter days sap my energies and ambition to do much more than sit in my chair by the fireplace and read.

That's why this Season of Light rings with delight in my heart. The cheerful colored lights adorning neighbors' houses snap away the winter malaise with little more than a simple string of glowing bulbs. There are some people, however, who go way over the top.

When I was a kid, Dad strung a few lights along the eave of our house. Nothing much, but it decked our particular halls with a bit more cheer. On Christmas Eve, we'd bundle into the Chevy coupe and explore the town, finding a cul-de-sac named "Christmas Street" where every home vied for the brightest, most elaborate holiday display. It was the opening event of the holiday for us, to be followed by a sumptuous dinner and family gathering at my aunt's house with piles of presents. At five or six years old, my pile seemed huge indeed.

In those days, of course, snow draped the elms and the picket fence for nearly three months. A photo of my childhood home shows snow drifts about two feet high. Entering adolescence, I noticed the snow's depth diminishing. It barely stayed throughout winter. An energy crisis in the 1970s forced us by official decree to keep Christmas lights in the closet. It was truly a melancholy holiday as our Christmas Eve search for lights quickly ended in disappointment. It was also a harbinger of things to come.

I realized what a gift it was for people to tack lights on their houses for all to see. When I left home, it felt strange to put up a tree in my tiny apartment. I benefitted from the efforts of others, but we singles celebrated by sharing our meager resources. My friend, Norma, always had a tree she kept up as long as possible, saying she wanted to celebrate Twelfth Night on January 6th. Twelfth Night came and went and the tree remained. She pruned the dying branches until the tree was nothing more than a beleaguered pole leaning in the corner entwined with a string of lights. Nonetheless, the glow from this rebellious decor boosted our morale through Salt Lake City's smoggy haze.

When Jeff and I moved to Truckee, we couldn't hang lights because snow buried the house up to the eaves; although we considered lining the garage doors to guide us down the long driveway. We did follow my childhood tradition of hunting for lights on Christmas Eve. Most of the time, though, we had to drive to Reno's Hidden Valley for a spectacular display. Firefighters stood with huge boots in hand taking donations for charity. Whatever dollars we stuffed in the boot was well worth the icy drive down the mountain.

Memories are powerful. I loved Norma's idea of preserving the tree as long as possible, if only to honor the life it sacrificed. Clearing away the decor, to me, was also an act of removing the past in order to enter the New Year fresh and unfettered. Thus, I began a new family tradition of the peanut butter tree on the patio. It attracted all the little birds intimidated by jays and grosbeaks snarfing up the oiled sunflower seeds along the railing. Sometimes, chickadees would perch upon the end of my knife as I drew it out of the jar, thick with chunky peanut butter. They couldn't wait for its rich nourishment against the cold.

Truckee winters try the souls of the strongest among us. Even diehard athletes tire of the cold and darkness after six months. Nothing, though, saps everyone's energies like the soggy malaise of winter in Boulder Creek, CA, where redwoods shrouded with fog blot out whatever sunlight penetrates the overcast. By the end of January, everything is waterlogged. Mold permeates the environment, creating bronchitis that lasts for months.

What's more, redwood trees wave in the wind like huge stalks of wheat. That's not a romantic sight as occasionally a redwood will uproot and collapse. Houses have been sliced like sticks of butter with a knife. In one story, a woman and her two children got up from the living room couch to change the baby's diaper in the bedroom. Moments later, she heard the deafening crash of a redwood tree that fell right where she and the children had been sitting.

People in the more remote neighborhoods of Boulder Creek, CA leave their Christmas lights lit for months, beating back the abysmal pall that soaks deep into everyone's bones. The constant dampness wreaked havoc with my lungs, settling into my bronchia for months. While I had escaped Salt Lake's choking pollution, California's moldy environments caused a seasonal affliction. And watching the redwoods swaying around my rustic mountain cabin stirred a restless anxiety that compounded my depression.

One year, I delivered newspapers, wandering along narrow, winding roads into places I could have sworn were haunted. Sometimes, I was afraid to open the window long enough to put the paper in its box. One moonless, drizzly night, I turned a corner around a grove of dripping redwoods. There, alone near the side of the road, sparkled a tiny tree wrapped in brilliant lights. I lurched to a stop and gazed at its beauty, the joy and redemption of it bursting through my melancholia. For a few precious minutes, all my problems fled my mind. The heavy knot in my chest lifted. Tears released my anxiety and fearful dread. Visions of those blazing colors accompanied me for the remainder of the route. I felt privileged to be one of the few greeted by this tiny messenger of love.

Now that we're in Minden, we again enjoy our Christmas Eve tradition of seeking out the Christmas lights. This is one town that goes the extra mile with seasonal decor. They even hold a Festival of Lights parade that brings out the entire community, regardless of frigid temperatures. Our first parade, Jeff and I huddled in lawn chairs nestled in quilts. The cold penetrated so deeply that even the enthusiastic teenage chatter behind us, and the hot cocoa they provided barely cut the icy sting. Yet no one can resist the joy of colored lights this time of year.

Rural people especially put more effort into celebrating winter holidays with lights and mayhem. In summer, Nevada's landscapes are muted with subtle colors. In winter, when the cottonwoods and aspens shed their golden leaves, Nevada hardens with stark slate blues and greys. It's a season when locals visit the flashing casinos for a visual respite.

As I look at the houses in the photos above, with their mind-blowing extravagance, I remember that tiny tree in the deep redwood forest. Covering that top house and landscape with thousands of lights cost so much, the residents never repeated the effort. And how long was the electric cord energizing that tiny tree's lights. These inspiring gifts from anonymous souls beat back the demons of the dark for whoever ventures to find them. With those visions in mind, I am grateful to those who share their lights for the rest of us to enjoy.

Postscript: Carson City also illuminates during the holidays.

Deer wander year-round through the neighborhoods on the west side of Carson City. There's also a vender who makes little wooden deer for Christmas décor. Can you spot the real deer in this photo?

The Shootist was John Wayne's final movie, filmed in this house in Carson City.

If you enjoyed this essay, feel free to explore more poems, essays, and articles in the Ring Around the Basin Archive.