Dad loved his lights: 40 years later, I get why my father knocked himself out

At some point in November, my dad would demand that I help him put up Christmas decorations.

He had all the gear the plastic molded candles with the flickering bulbs, boxes and boxes of lights with the fabric-covered wires, and these life-size Santa and reindeer plywood cutouts.

I think he got them, like just about everything else in our house, at Canadian Tire. You would trace them on plywood, cut out the plywood forms and then apply the stickers.

Well, Gib his name was Gilbert, but everyone knew him as Gib, Gibby or Uncle Red wouldn't cut them out. He wasn't the least bit handy.There was nothing safe about Gib and power tools. He came from a family of master electricians and engineers, but the handy gene blew right by him.

There were many Christmas Eves where I would stay awake waiting for Santa only to hear my old man cursing because Tab A and Tab B didn't fit where he was convinced they should.

Meanwhile, Mom could be heard lamenting: Gib, read the instructions. Why don't you just read the instructions?

These life-sized Norman Rockwell-like stickers on plywood reminded dad of simpler times. Maybe it was Renfrew the 'frew in the Ottawa Valley, where he was born, or maybe it was the gentler, kinder decade of the 40s, when his bright red hair was still decades away from turning grey.

I never asked, but I wish I had.

Striking a Patton-like pose

Standing on the front lawn and wearing a real imitation bear-skin coat, Gib would look up at our modest black and white house that sat atop a small hill in Ottawa's west end.

His hands rested on his hips in a Patton-like pose surveying the battleground before him as he ran various decorating strategies through his mind.

While he envisioned what only a true Christmas-light visionary could see, I would spend hours and hours untangling and checking lights. Hours and hours were spent grumbling while Gib orchestrated this Yuletide production of coloured and twinkling joy. By the end of it, we were both froze and had shared more than a few choice words between us.

The driver gave me the thumbs up, beamed this huge smile and mouthed the words thank you as they slowly rolled by.

I never understood the whole saga. It seemed like an awful lot of effort for a few weeks of twinkling joy.

One of the Ottawa papers ran a Christmas decorating competition each year. They came by a few times and took pictures of Gib's work. He would tell everyone the Ducharme house was surely to be one of the big winners that year.

The edition with the pictures of the contest winners would land on our front step and the little black and white house on the hill would never make the cut. While dad was devastated, mom was thrilled. She thought his decorating skills were absolutely gaudy.

Something I just had to do

When I saw people selling modern versions of the plywood Christmas cutouts, I knew recreating Gib's Christmas world on my front lawn was something I had to do. Not because I wanted to reclaim some childhood memory but because I wanted to feel what he felt.

So this year I went full-on traditional and got some multi-coloured lights, some plywood figures and decorated the house.

The lights have been doing their thing for weeks now. Each night I find myself sitting on the couch, looking out the window like a big kid and watching the lights perform for passing motorists.

And while those moments put a gentle smile on my face, I still didn't have my answer.

And then one day last week there was a brief moment of magic. It was one of those magical moments that only seem to happen during the holiday season.

I was outside striking my best Gib pose, looking up at my little house on the hill adorned in twinkling lights when a car slowed down. The driver gave me the thumbs up, beamed this huge smile and mouthed the words thank you as they slowly rolled by.

Some 40 years later I finally get what Gib got all along.

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