Let me explain.
We live in the country, among simple people who have their own, long-held traditions regarding things like zoning, and building permits, and the difference between a scrap heap and a residential yard—namely, that they don’t particularly hold to such notions. Trailer homes are not confined to mobile home parks. Nor are they permitted to roam freely, of course, as we do have some standards. No, they are tethered down, but in the midst of large residential lots, sharing space with several immobile cars, a shed or two (one usually in a state of construction), piles of salvaged building materials, and possibly a horse paddock.
Along our road, one will find many intriguing specimins of sheds, porches, and the like that don’t seem to conform to the Laws of Man, God, or Euclidean Geometry. Particularly popular is the trailer home which has been enhanced by a deck which, a few years later, turns into a screened-in porch, and then, over time, evolves into a bedroom. A bedroom without a single right angle, and precious little insulation, and with a door giving direct access to the outdoors, mind you, but a bedroom none the less. The tradition of the extended family, of children moving back in when they have children, is very, very strong. The trailer of a thriving family is liable to have more than one such improvised room clinging to it, hanging off it, or sidled up next to it.
And before such a trailer-home-plus once proudly reared the Christmas Phallus.
The Christmas Phallus was once a tree. It was never a Christmas tree, per se, having been of a decidious variety, and, indeed, it has been many years since it ceased to be a tree at all, having yielded to old age and become frail and dangerous. The property owners had the tree taken down, but not entirely. For reasons of their own, they left a stump. But not just one of your piddly, chopped-off-at-the-knees stumps, oh, no sirree. This was a magnificient eight foot high stump, square in front of the residence, standing watch over the little trailer, year in, and year out.
Now, around Halloween time, as you well know, people everywhere get a certain urge, the urge to stave off the darkness of the long nights, to brighten the hearts of their fellow man with displays of Christian spirit, to transform the mundane and familiar world into a winter wonderland.
And, being the proud owners of an eight-foot-tall stump, our dear neighbors, motivated by the desire to express tidings of comfort and joy to all those who traveled past their homestead, created a Christmas display of their own. Yes, they took strings of wee Christmas lights, of many festive colors, some blinking, and some steady, and they wound them about their stump to create a beacon of light and cheer that shone through the night.
Yes, my friends, it was the Christmas Phallus. Glimmering in the night, the luminescent Christmas Phallus welcomed the season. And, not ones to put their lights under a bushel, the owners of the Christmas Phallus let it shine, let it shine tall and proud, until Easter. Travelers just passing by on the road at evening time, unfamiliar with the area, never having seen the marvelous eight-foot stump by daylight, upon seeing its scintillating sillhouette, proud and resplendent in the darkness, were often wont to remark, “God Almighty, what the hell is that supposed to be?” There were three traffic accidents at that two-way stopsigns near the Christmas Phallus last winter, and two the year before, most likely due to a truncated line of sight because of the hillcrest just above the corner on the main road . . . but, then, you never know.
But, with deep regret, my friends, I must inform you of the passing of the Christmas Phallus. As I passed by this morning, I was deeply pained to see the Christmas Phallus prostrate on the lawn before the enhanced trailer home. There were no lights of course, the time of proper Christmas displays having passed with the coming of the Easter Bunny. The Phallus had been segmented by a chainsaw, its thick, sturdy trunk now divided into fat logs, each laid gently in a pillow of its own sawdust. It was a sad sight, but, also, in a way, peaceful. It’s painful for us to acknoweldge that, with the passage of time, all things are lost to us, even those who we had come to think of as immortal institutions. And, yet, I am comforted by a thought that the Christmas Phallus will shine on. It will shine on in our hearts, as each of us shows our love to our fellow Man at Christmas time—and all year around! The Christmas Phallus is part of all of us. But, mostly, I am joyful that I will never have to see that ugly-ass think lit up at night again.
RIP Christmas Phallus, 1998-2005
