Thoughts from the Editor

A few years ago, our family had recently moved into our new home, and as the festive season approached, I wanted to make our house shimmer. I went out and purchased new strands of colorful lights to add a little nostalgia and was set to bring some merry to our neighborhood.

Picture this: a charming house with steep, only slightly daunting, rooflines, practically begging for some cheer. Now, I’m no stranger to holiday decorations. (I had just pulled down 12 fully loaded storage tubs brimming with Christmas goodies.) But this house posed a unique challenge. Eager to impress my family, I embarked on the ambitious task of hanging the exterior Christmas lights.

Hoping for some moral support from my wife and a hand from my kids, I pulled out the ladder and the required gear. Within moments, my daughters both rode off on their bikes to play, and my wife was jumping in a car to go shopping with a friend. Her departing words were something along the lines of “that roof looks really steep” and that I should be careful, as she tossed me a bike helmet “just in case.”

The first attempt was, in the words of the Fantastic Mr. Fox, a cluster-cuss. I clambered up the ladder, lights in hand, full of determination. The first issue was that my shoelaces were untied. If you’ve never tried to tie your shoes on a steep ledge, then you don’t know how to live. The second issue was that the newly acquired lights had yet to be unpackaged. So there I was, teeth bared to chew through plastic safety packing material, shoe untied, bike helmet on, and starting to get frustrated as my neighbors walked past to watch the spectacle and wave a holiday hello.

After some time, and definitely no help from my wife and kids, I was finally ready to make it happen. It all started going well as I got into a rhythm, but as I reached the first pitch of the roofline, reality struck—there was no way I was getting up there without risking a headline in the local newspaper. A fall from this height was a double-wrist-break kind of event, at minimum. Attempting to scale the steepest part of the roof would take a feat of great skill and courage, particularly for this self-diagnosed semi-acrophobic (someone who’s afraid of heights) gentleman. So, I did what any self-respecting person would do. I decorated just half the roof.

Each evening, as I drove home, the sight of our half-lit house greeted me. It looked as though our home was frozen, mid-blink, in a festive wink to the world. In a desperate attempt to compensate, I bought some ground lights, shining them up on the house in hopes of creating an illusion of completeness. Spoiler alert: it didn't. It looked like our house was signaling for extraterrestrial help. I spent that Christmas feeling a tad embarrassed every time the sun set, but here’s the twist: despite the incomplete decorations, that Christmas was still beautiful. Our family found joy in imperfection. The half-lit house became a symbol of our first holiday in the new home, a humorous testament to the unpredictability of life. So when my wife asked me the other day if I wanted to put some lights up outside, I quickly responded with a whole-hearted “No, thank you.”

Holidays don't have to be perfect to be wonderful. Sometimes, it's the imperfections that make the best memories. They remind us to focus on what truly matters: Being fully present with our loved ones. So, if this holiday season doesn't go as planned, just remember: a half-lit house can still be completely full of light and laughter.

Eric Riley

Executive Editor Lifestyle Magazine President / Owner Topograph