In order to determine which figure endures the longest, I’ve been relegated to the position of “Decoration Monitor,” an appointment not to be taken lightly. And, like any good social anthropologist, I do not interrupt the natural order of things. My mission is to observe, take notes, and report the findings. The log of endurance is written mostly at night, when the glimmer of lights reflects the true spectacle of the perpetrator’s intentions. These are, after all, celebrated luminaries.
The Log of Endurance:
January 15th: All decorations and lighted displays have been removed from the homes on Kildare Avenue...except for Reindeer and Snowman. They remain defiant in their stand against convention.
January 25th: A terrible storm dumped twenty-two inches of snow on the neighborhood, covering the extension cords and the bases of Reindeer and Snowman. They stand unfazed by mother nature, and the remaining five feet or so of both figures rise statuesque above the snow.
January 27th: Snowman’s top hat is beginning to tilt with the weight of accumulated snow on the brim. The antlers on Reindeer remain unaffected. Their lights continue to shine against the stark winter landscape, proclaiming their courage and dogged determination against the elements.
February 2nd: A brief warm spell melted most of the snow off Reindeer and Snowman. The bright orange extension cords, like tethers to a space station, continue to offer life-support from the homes of the accidental visionaries.
February 10th: Strong northerly winds pushed hard against both figures all night long, tilting Snowman about ten degrees to the South. He looks worried. Reindeer remains undaunted with a somewhat superior gleam in his piercing red eyes.
February 20th: Hard rain and a power outage render a blackout on both Reindeer and Snowman. For the first time since early December, the lights no longer twinkle on either figure. Both are left to dwell on their predicament in the cold darkness of winter.
February 22nd: Power is restored and the lights once again glimmer on both Reindeer and Snowman. A collective sigh of relief, like a small tremblor, is felt throughout the neighborhood.
March 2nd: Random electrical sparking is seen on the mid-section of Snowman. One half of Snowman’s lights cease to function at 2:00am. Reindeer’s lights twinkle with extra exuberance, mocking Snowman, giving credence to the “used to laugh and call him names” behavior attributed to those who pulled Santa’s sleigh.
March 10th: An unexpected ice storm leaves Reindeer and Snowman coated in a sheet of ice. Reindeer’s antlers are covered with long icicles and are tilting Reindeer to the South about twelve degrees. Snowman doesn’t respond, but we all know what he’s thinking.
March 18th: Near tornadic winds topple both icons onto their respective lawns. Snowman lies on his side, anchored from blowing away by a single guy wire. Reindeer’s antlers gouge a divot in the ground, twisting his head ever so slightly. Snowman’s top hat and scarf and Reindeer’s red bow are nowhere to be found.
March 20th: Reindeer and Snowman, like dying soldiers, lay motionless on the ground. An occasional light flickers from each statue, a reminder that, in war, no one wins, no matter how valiant the players.
March 23rd: Spring has arrived, and near dawn, the first robins of the season perch on the fallen skeletons of Reindeer and Snowman. They are like buzzards on picked-over carcasses and use the vantage points as lookouts for hapless insects and worms.
March 27th: A brief ceremony is held on the street separating the two fallen icons. I hold a book of poems written by the bleary-eyed poet, Side-Street Mary, and read “Aw, Quit Your Blubbering,” a moving piece about a somewhat likeable dead guy. Though I’m alone, I sense the neighbors are watching from their windows, too overcome with grief to emerge and share their feelings. I close the book, walk home, and begin the wait for next season’s resurrection of Reindeer and Snowman.
