We don’t put time and money into outdoor Christmas decorations, but Randy, our neighbor, goes all out with candy canes, Santa and his sleigh, reindeer, snowmen, gingerbread men, and Christmas trees. Every oak, shrub, and figure in his front yard is bedecked with twinkling lights. Every border is brightly marked and every inch of lawn is covered by some form of ornamentation.
“We’re in a gated cul-de-sac,” I said to David the first Christmas after they moved in. “Who’s gonna see it? Who’s it even for?”
When we got to know them we enjoyed it more. They’re a kind-hearted couple and they like to think that they’re bringing joy to the few people who pass by—and they do. These days, though we’re a small population, we all merrily anticipate their display.
Oh, here’s something interesting—this year the electric company is holding a Christmas light competition; and whoever wins gets a five-hundred-dollar credit on their bill.
David texts Randy, sending him the link and writing: You should enter this competition.
The response: Not interested.
David’s reply: Is it okay if I send a picture in?
Randy’s answer: Knock yourself out. (For those who don’t speak Americana—knock yourself out means that’s fine with me.)
So David takes a couple of pictures and sends them in.
“You did what?” I ask, sticking my nose in, as is my tendency.
“He told me he was okay with it.”
“Let me get this straight. You entered your name; and you entered our address as the location of the decorated house.”
“They asked for my name and address.”
“And Randy knows you’re entering his lights under your name?”
“He told me to knock myself out.”
“But by filling out the form, you’re implying that the lights are our lights and the house is our house.” I’m becoming a bit panicked. This sounds nefarious.
“It’s not my fault if they assume that the person who sends in the pictures is the one who put up the lights and lives in the house.”
“By that account anybody driving around with a phone can enter a picture of somebody else’s house. I’m sure that wasn’t the company’s intention.”
“Who really knows what anybody else’s intention is?”
Well, he’s won that argument. If there’s one thing that’s always disturbed my inner peace it’s this question of intent. Who knows what drives other people? Who, other than the person himself, knows the motivations behind his actions?
“So if Randy’s house wins, we get a five-hundred-dollar credit with the electric company?”
“I guess so,” he says with a shrug.
I’m not sure what to think about this. The purpose of communication is to make things clear. Writing coherently and making murky concepts understood is how I spend a lot of my time. And there is definitely some faulty communication going on here. Did the electric company not consider the possibility that, under the rules as presented, anybody could send in pictures of somebody else’s front yard? Maybe the company plans to actually drive through the whole Lower Colorado River chain and verify each entry.
Presumably Randy read the terms of the competition. How will he feel if we win five hundred dollars for his work? It’s not an amount that either household will agonize over, but money’s money; and credit should go to the one who did the work. On the other hand, he’s obviously not seeking any sort of kudos.
Also, when it comes to a question of intention, what was David’s? Well, as we’ve been married for thirty-six years, I’m pretty sure I can accurately guess what he was thinking—and it wasn’t Gee, I think I’ll commit fraud today. His inspiration was his genuine belief that Randy should know that he’s appreciated. Also, David saw humor in the situation. This was never meant to be a moral burden to his beleaguered wife. He simply thought it would be fun and funny.
And oh the horror—what if David’s pictures win and he’s asked to receive recognition in some sort of public ceremony?
I’m not going to think about it anymore—I’ll simply hope that some other decorated house’s neighbor wins.
It’s a lot of light.
On a different topic, a mystery. David received this in the mail. It came in a small square envelope and the return address was a PO Box. The wire'’s so jagged that if you run your finger over it, it’ll cut you. His Habitat friends think it might be some sort of survivalist saw, but I think it’s a garrotte. Who would send us such a thing, and why?
