A cornucopia of color. A litany of light. That's what I could count on come December. It had even spiraled into a competition amongst my neighbors, each house trying to one-up the next. But as far as I was concerned, Jim Cawley's house was always the center of attention. 

 

Back then, my kids and I would throw on our coats every evening in December, and we'd make our way around the festive houses on foot. Of course, we'd save the best for last, so our final stop would always be Jim Cawley's front yard. Inflatable elves and a jolly Santa covered his frost-filled lawn. The LEDs that adorned his roof and were draped around the surrounding evergreens blinked in a rhythmic chorus of illumination. Between 7 and 9 PM, the lights pulsed in time to the music blaring from his speakers. But Jim wasn't just gunning for the Christians in our midst. There were always a few revolving dreidels clustered around a menorah, too. I guess Jim was trying not to leave anyone out. He seemed intent on bringing joy to everyone on our block. 

 

When my oldest was in high school, Jim expanded his repertoire to include a projection of snowflakes cascading down the facade of his home. I suppose some might have considered Jim's holiday display to be over-the-top, but for a lot of us, including my family, it was like receiving that Christmas card in the mail that you've been waiting for all year long.

 

I think Jim liked the attention too, especially when the families on the street were very young. He'd beam at the crowd of onlookers and chat with everyone who came by his house after dinner to have a look. It was an informal party of sorts.  

 

But the neighborhood grew and changed. By the time my kids had moved out of the house, the neighborhood lights had gone dark. All except for Jim Cawley's. Jim's children weren't around anymore and Jim's wife had passed, but you could still find Jim out there the day after Thanksgiving, hammering in stakes and unwinding electrical cords, gearing up for his big show. I shouldn't have been surprised. I had always suspected it was just as much fun for Jim as it had been for his offspring.  

 

Without the kids in the neighborhood, though, the camaraderie waned. Jim would still sit outside in a chair all bundled up in his winter gear. But he was like a shepherd without a flock. Oh, maybe there was an occasional dog walker here or there who'd stop by briefly to talk to him. For the most part, though, Jim would be looking at his sparkling lights and kitschy decorations, listening to the holiday tunes by himself. 

 

Every now and again, I'd swing by to say hello. The last time Jim and I had spoken, I remember the jingle bells overhead jangling with each whip of the wind and the steam rising from the hot chocolate I had handed him. He had told me then that his son had gotten married and his daughter had given birth. They were going to visit him that Christmas.

 

But December 1st of the following year, Jim's lights didn't shine. The snowflakes didn't fall, and there was no music to be heard. I didn't know the reason, but I didn't want to be intrusive and ask. I only knew the street didn't look the same without Jim's holiday extravaganza.

 

It wasn't until the week before Christmas, as I was driving home in the dark, that it hit me. By the time my headlights struck my empty house, I knew what I had to do.

 

The next evening, I parked myself in a chair and watched the lights dance about in my yard. It was nowhere near as good as what Jim would have had, but it was something.

 

An hour or two after I had electrified my yard, Jim and his son came into view.  Jim surveyed my work approvingly. His eyes gleamed and he gave me a half-smile. "Bout time," he mumbled from a wheelchair.

 

"Not sure if you heard," his son said, standing beside him. "My father suffered a stroke.  It's hard for him to speak."

 

The night was cold and when Jim began to shiver, his son took it as a cue to leave. But every evening the rest of that year, I could count on finding Jim in his window, fixated on the Technicolor glow in my yard. Once, I even glimpsed a toddler joining him in wide-eyed wonder. Seeing Jim, I flushed with pride. I finally understood that it wasn't just the lights themselves that captivated Jim. It was the spirit of the season.