Last night, driving home from our show at the Biker’s Stage, we passed an enitre block of houses lit up for Christmas. Red, green and white lights. Some beaming steady while others blinked on and off.
I said to Will, “They are shimmering through the night air.”
Will said, “Yeah.”
I said, ” I love Christmas lights. My best childhood holiday memory is jumping in the family car, The Old Man behind the wheel, with my brothers and, sometimes, Mom in there with us, ready to tour the town in search of illumination.”
“I know what you mean, man. I’ve got my own to remember.”
“What d’ya say? Let’s relive the good ole days.”
As soon as I could, I made a right into a ritzy neighborhood and, just like that, we were flat ass diggin’ the digital icicles dripping from every kind of tree. Poplar, oak and pine. Seventeen Santas on seventeen rooftops barking orders to one hundred thirty six regular reindeer and seventeen red nosed rudolphs, one of which, I swear, was a fiber optic, animated Bullwinkle the Moose.
I told Will, “I could ride around checkin’ out all the lights but I better not. This car eats up the gas.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Maybe next time.”
I helped Will unload his gear, fist bumped and hugged him good bye.
I pulled into a gas station and put fifty of the hundred bucks I had made playing music on the counter and told the cashier, ” On pump 8. It won’t filler up but it’ll be close enough.”
I pumped the gas, got into my brother’s Mescalade, and turned onto the quiet Sunday street.
I was looking for light.