Jack Knox
Slightly Skewed
Every time I put up the outdoor Christmas lights, my mind naturally turns to the movie Zulu.
Shot in 1964, starring a young Michael Caine, it was a late-night TV favourite before the networks realized they could make more money selling infomercial time to Dr. Ho and the Slap Chop guy.
A ripping yarn for those who enjoy a good old-fashioned imperialist slaughter: 1879, battle of Rorke's Drift, 4,000 African warriors attacking 150 British redcoats, the defenders leaving a trail of bodies as they retreat into an ever-shrinking box.
My Christmas lights are the British soldiers. They put on a splendid show at first, evenly spaced in orderly ranks running along the roof line, circling the trees, skirting the driveway. But over the years, as they blinked out one by one - casualties on the ornamental battlefield - their perimeter began to contract.
"Too many gaps, must consolidate the lines," I reported grimly one December day, rainwater puddling at my feet. "We have to give up the roof."
If certain family members remembered my dislike of replacing the bulbs up there - the legacy of a slipping ladder, a pebbled stucco wall and a broken nose one teenage Christmas - they refrained from mentioning it.
But they couldn't hide their displeasure as the lights gradually withdrew from the cedar tree, the driveway and even from the picture window until this year when, like the redcoats in Zulu, they were reduced to a tiny, brave band clustered around the front door, defiantly standing back to back with bayonets fixed. It was suggested that I attempt a break-out, go to Zellers for reinforcements.
I demurred. These lights were the perfect match for our imperfect Christmas tree.
This year's tree is awesome. Grown locally, but might have been conceived in Chernobyl. Drops needles like a drunken tailor. Appears to have come second in an axe fight. Branches distributed so unevenly that we had to load all the ornaments on one side as a counterweight, lest it tip over like Mel Gibson at a traffic stop. When the angel was placed on top, it looked embarrassed, stuck a bag over its own head.
And the tree matches the nativity scene, where headless sheep (shades of the Saanich deer-hunters) nestle creepily around the baby Jesus/Lego block while a blended family of wise men and shepherds collected from other, long-lost mangers look on, as do two Virgin Marys - one tiny, the other Shaquille-sized - and, inexplicably, a plastic Japanese soldier. Joseph appears to have done a runner.
Men are pigs.
All this reflects Christmas not as we want it to be, but how it really is, and that's just fine. We do not live in a perfect world. We do not have perfect families. We should not expect a perfect Christmas. Accept only the ideal light display, the ideal tree, the ideal turkey or the ideal gift and you will inevitably be disappointed.
Accept that certain things will happen this Christmas: Someone will either A) refuse to, or B) make you wear the paper crown from the Christmas cracker, someone will accidentally burn a winning scratch 'n' win ticket and someone will show up at work with a sprig of mistletoe, half a gallon of Old Spice and a roll of Certs.
Someone will belt out a pornographic, unintentionally loud version of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, until silenced by a withering glare from the pulpit. Someone will spend four hours in the kitchen, but be chastised for forgetting the cranberry sauce.
Someone will complain that a homemade gift certificate for 45 minutes* of wild passion (*not in a row) is a poor substitute for the quasi-promised spa treatment, which will prompt someone else to reply that "you've gotten really whiny since you started gaining weight," which the emergency room doctor will agree was unduly provocative, but next time could you please stick with convention and just stuff a turkey instead.
But that's OK, we love each other, flaws and all.
Forget Zulu. Go watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, which is less of a comedy than a morality play.
And have a perfectly imperfect Christmas.
