2008 Woodie Awards
The Holiday Drive: Revisiting A Childhood Pastime
Lea McDonald
Issue date: 12/5/02 Section: Feature
- Page 1 of 1
Every single year, my parents force me into the car so we can have a family bonding experience: driving around town for two and a half hours looking at Christmas lights. Most people love to do this during the holidays. However, I will never admit to liking it. It is the same ritual year after year, unchanging and unavoidable.
It will inevitably start with my mom deciding on the coldest night of the year, "Wouldn't it be nice to go look at Christmas lights tonight?" She says this with all the enthusiasm of the Spartan cheerleaders. Of course, my dad agrees, and of course, I am expected to go. I have tried everything to get out of going, including hiding under my bed and in my closet. One year I actually hid outside in the bushes, but the damn Christmas lights decorating our own house gave me away.
I am forced into my coat and imprisoned in the back of the car. Oh help! There's a million other things I could be doing right now, like watching The Grinch or playing the nth game of Snood, or shaving my eyebrows off, but noooooo, I am stuck in the car with my parents, who are singing off-key Christmas carols at top volume. And they will go through 'em all.
After about five minutes, my dad is too hot from the full blast heater. Does he take off his coat? No, that's much too simple. Instead, he rolls his window down, and icy air will blow on me for the remainder of the car ride no matter how much I complain about it. The only acknowledgement they give of my whining is an occasional "shut up, Junior," and for variety they throw in "don't make us turn this car around." Baffling that they think I'm enjoying myself. They never actually go home either. I think they just enjoy torturing me.
Two hours later, after looking at uninspired, drab, mediocre Christmas decorations, we come to our final destination. On one small dead-end street, three houses have more decorations crammed into their yards and roofs and windows than the whole town combined. It is Christmas light insanity. Think the Griswold house from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation times three. Much like the Great Wall of China, it can be seen from outer space. There's a million lights, mechanical waving Santas, about three dozen reindeer, two nativity scenes per house (one on each roof, go figure), Christmas music pumped in from Nutcracker shaped speakers, glowing candy canes, snowmen, everything you can think of. It looks like a Christmas bomb was dropped and this neighborhood experienced the worst of the fallout.
Inside our car, a miracle happens. All whining stops. Nobody says anything, since it's hard to when your jaw hits the floor. Ignoring the cold air, we roll down the windows and listen to the tinny music. For the past three years running, it's been Alvin and the Chipmunks' Christmas Album. Even though we see the same decorations every year, it is the pure unsaturated holiday spirit condensed into one and a half acres of land and lit like my uncle on Christmas day that never, ever, fails to astound me.
We sit in the car for a few minutes, taking it all in. The people inside are oblivious to us, and I wonder why they aren't out here appreciating the glow of the lights. They could get a pretty good suntan from it. It is awesome. We never say much as we drive away, except a "see, wasn't it worth it?" from my parents. Grudgingly, I have to admit it. It's totally worth it.
It will inevitably start with my mom deciding on the coldest night of the year, "Wouldn't it be nice to go look at Christmas lights tonight?" She says this with all the enthusiasm of the Spartan cheerleaders. Of course, my dad agrees, and of course, I am expected to go. I have tried everything to get out of going, including hiding under my bed and in my closet. One year I actually hid outside in the bushes, but the damn Christmas lights decorating our own house gave me away.
I am forced into my coat and imprisoned in the back of the car. Oh help! There's a million other things I could be doing right now, like watching The Grinch or playing the nth game of Snood, or shaving my eyebrows off, but noooooo, I am stuck in the car with my parents, who are singing off-key Christmas carols at top volume. And they will go through 'em all.
After about five minutes, my dad is too hot from the full blast heater. Does he take off his coat? No, that's much too simple. Instead, he rolls his window down, and icy air will blow on me for the remainder of the car ride no matter how much I complain about it. The only acknowledgement they give of my whining is an occasional "shut up, Junior," and for variety they throw in "don't make us turn this car around." Baffling that they think I'm enjoying myself. They never actually go home either. I think they just enjoy torturing me.
Two hours later, after looking at uninspired, drab, mediocre Christmas decorations, we come to our final destination. On one small dead-end street, three houses have more decorations crammed into their yards and roofs and windows than the whole town combined. It is Christmas light insanity. Think the Griswold house from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation times three. Much like the Great Wall of China, it can be seen from outer space. There's a million lights, mechanical waving Santas, about three dozen reindeer, two nativity scenes per house (one on each roof, go figure), Christmas music pumped in from Nutcracker shaped speakers, glowing candy canes, snowmen, everything you can think of. It looks like a Christmas bomb was dropped and this neighborhood experienced the worst of the fallout.
Inside our car, a miracle happens. All whining stops. Nobody says anything, since it's hard to when your jaw hits the floor. Ignoring the cold air, we roll down the windows and listen to the tinny music. For the past three years running, it's been Alvin and the Chipmunks' Christmas Album. Even though we see the same decorations every year, it is the pure unsaturated holiday spirit condensed into one and a half acres of land and lit like my uncle on Christmas day that never, ever, fails to astound me.
We sit in the car for a few minutes, taking it all in. The people inside are oblivious to us, and I wonder why they aren't out here appreciating the glow of the lights. They could get a pretty good suntan from it. It is awesome. We never say much as we drive away, except a "see, wasn't it worth it?" from my parents. Grudgingly, I have to admit it. It's totally worth it.