I spent my Wonder Years in a little town outside of Philadelphia. I don’t know if it’s still a tradition, but in the 60’s, at least, whole neighborhoods in South Philly would get together and hang Christmas lights.

And when I say ‘hang Christmas lights,’ I don’t mean everyone decorated their own house. I don’t even mean that neighbors would get all competitive with each other a la Christmas Vacation. I mean the entire street got together and sacrificed Reddy Kilowatt on the altar of Holiday Overexuberance and in the name of Our Neighborhood Can Outdo Your Neighborhood.

Every year we would venture out of our suburban hamlet and head into the city to ‘see the lights.’ And then we’d head over to Barson’s Delicatessen and eat a lot of ice cream.

But the lights…you could read War and Peace at midnight in the middle of those streets. To my childish eyes, this was the coolest thing ever. I was raised in a non-Christmas light household; the most we did was hang a wreath and then one magic year my parents got those fake candolier thingies that you put in your windows and I thought maybe they’d lost their minds in Woolworth’s and forgot that they were non-Christmas light people and they’d come to their senses and return ’em but no: every year thereafter until something like 1988 my very frugal folks carefully placed those fake candles in the windows.

Now I live in Phoenix, where the lights of the City of Brotherly Love are far away.

Except they’re not. My neighbors apparently grew up in South Philly because on the Friday after Thanksgiving I can generally read War and Peace in the middle of the street, at midnight. My neighbors, lovely people all, are even as we speak, plotting their displays. Not for Christmas, 2010. Oh, God, no. That one has been labored on all summer.

No, they’re figuring out what to do (and where to get the electricity for) Christmas, 2011.

Having been raised in a non-Christmas-light family, I could get with just throwing a wreath up and I bet they still sell those fake-candolier-thingies. But my husband wants to at least be able to say that his power bill is as big as Daril’s, so every year he bravely hangs his cute butt off the roof and strings some lights.

I’m down with all this. The house does look nice. And you never know…when the backlight on your e-Reader is down you may want to sit in the middle of the street and read.

But I’m noticing a disturbing trend. It’s October 17th, and there are an alarming number of houses decked out with an amazing array of lights. Black and orange lights. This is understandable, of course. The Halloween decorating is kinda fun. Tombstones in the front yard, spooky music playing…who doesn’t like a doormat that plays “Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.”

But these are the same houses that were all lit up with red lights on Valentine’s Day. And who are making a valiant attempt to generate some support for Sam the Eagle inflatables for the Fourth.

You know very well where this is going. Like the Christmas lights, this is gonna creep like bad underwear and pretty soon we’ll be the only house on the street without a full-on Arbor Day display.

I say: Stop the insanity. Run! Save yourselves, before Walmart starts carrying President’s Day candoliers.

© E.S. Evans 2010