The Annual Tradition of Tangled Chaos (As Told by Yours Truly, Glen)
Every year as Christmas approaches, I — Glen, lifelong defender of sanity and pole buildings — perform a ritual that is equal parts festive tradition and psychological endurance test. I drag out the battered cardboard box labeled LIGHTS, MAYBE WORKING? and prepare to face whatever horror awaits inside.
Now, I’m no stranger to unruly materials. I’ve handled siding in a windstorm, wrangled trusses that didn’t want to cooperate, and persuaded more than one stubborn door to behave with nothing but encouragement and a hammer. But Christmas lights? Those things have it out for me personally.
I swear on my favorite cordless drill: if Christmas lights had feelings, mine would absolutely file complaints about their working conditions under me, Glen.
And honestly? They’d probably be right.
There is no earthly explanation for the fact that I coil these strands neatly every January, tuck them into the same box, and store them in the same corner of the same pole barn — yet when I open the box again, they’ve turned into a snarled mass that looks like a raccoon tried to knit a sweater during an electrical storm.
Even I, the eternal optimist, can only stare at the knot and think,
“Well, boys… let’s dance.”
Lights That Flicker With Attitude
Once I’ve untangled the glowing monster — or trimmed away enough pieces that it appears intentional — the real fun begins. Every strand of lights has a personality, and I’ve known people with less attitude.
One strand tries to shine so brightly that it is declared a navigational hazard by the FAA.
Another flickers, as if sending coded messages to enemy forces.
And of course, there’s always that one strand that quits the instant I, Glen — a man of patience and questionable holiday decisions — climb up the ladder and clip it into place.
Coincidence? Don’t make me laugh.
These lights have been with me long enough to know precisely how to break my Christmas spirit just enough to keep things entertaining. If they could talk, they’d say:
“Glen, buddy… you hung us crooked, we’re cold, we’re tired, and we’d like to file a workplace grievance.”
I would accept the paperwork with dignity.
A Pole Building That Doesn’t Share My Decorating Vision
You’d think after decades of building pole barns, I could get one of them to cooperate during the holidays. But no — my pole building meets Christmas with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to shovel snow at dawn.
Every time I attempt to hang lights, the siding picks up just enough wind to turn the whole structure into a festive catapult. The lights swing. The clips snap. The ladder wobbles. And somewhere off in the woods, I swear I hear coyotes laughing.
My building stands strong through blizzards, hailstorms, and the kind of wind that rearranges your personality. But the moment I come at it with a box of Christmas lights?
It pretends it’s never heard of cooperation.
If the building could talk, it would sigh and say,
“Glen. My guy. I’m here to store your tools, not to star in a Hallmark movie.”
Still, I persist — because nothing says “Glen was here” like a slightly crooked string of Christmas lights clinging to the side of a pole building with the determination of a man who refuses to read instructions.
A Brief Glentermission: Hot Cocoa, Regrets, and Clark Griswold Therapy
Right around the time my fingertips freeze to a strand of LEDs, I decide it’s time for a break. I shuffle inside, fire up some hot cocoa, and stand by the window contemplating every questionable decision that led me to this moment for about five minutes — just long enough for the feeling to return to three of my fingers.
Then, as tradition demands, I give up on self-reflection entirely and put on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, because nothing soothes a man’s ego like watching Clark Griswold go twelve rounds with 25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights.
Something is reassuring about seeing Clark slap the siding, kick the Santa lawn ornaments, and shout into the cold suburban night when the lights don’t turn on. It’s like watching a dramatized version of my own holiday decorating process, only with less swearing and fewer extension cords wrapped around my boots.
And when he finally gets the lights working — after electrocuting the cat, blinding the neighbors, and nearly knocking out the entire power grid — I sit back with my cocoa and think,
“Well, Glen… at least you’re not that bad.”
I whisper the annual promise:
“Next year, Glen, you genius, you’re buying those pre-lit decorations.”
But next year I won’t remember that. Next year I’ll walk into a hardware store, see a sale bin of lights, and think, “How bad could it be?” And thus, future Glen will suffer the consequences of past Glen’s optimism.
Tradition is important—even the traditions that lead to minor frostbite — and annual cinematic therapy sessions with Clark Griswold.
The Great Extension Cord Migration
Listen, I own enough extension cords to power a small parade. Or at least I think I do — until I need them. Then they vanish like they’re migrating south for the winter.
Some hide behind the air compressor.
Some coil themselves inside old toolboxes.
One cord disappeared for three years, only to resurface during a family reunion under a picnic table, as if it had been living off the land.
When I find them, they never match the lengths I actually need. They behave like mischievous elves, tripping me, tangling themselves, and refusing to reach the outlet by exactly 14 inches.
If they could talk, every extension cord would file a complaint specifically naming me:
“Subject: Glen continues to underestimate distances.”
They’re not wrong.
But eventually — by brute force, luck, and the grace of Santa Claus himself — every plug finds its home, and my pole building begins to glow.
A Glow Worth Glen’s Struggle
There’s a moment each year when the sun dips low, the snow drifts quiet down, and the entire property waits to see whether my electrical masterpiece will actually turn on.
Then — flick! — the lights burst to life.
My pole building, normally rugged and utilitarian, suddenly looks like the kind of place where reindeer might hold a board meeting. The trees sparkle—the eaves glimmer. Even the moody strands decide, just for one night, to behave.
And I, Glen — conqueror of knots, survivor of extension-cord warfare — stand in the snow and admire it all.
It’s imperfect. It’s slightly crooked. One corner flickers like it’s questioning its life choices.
But it’s beautiful.
Maybe My Lights Aren’t Filing Complaints After All
When January rolls around, and it’s time to take everything down, I pack up the lights with tenderness, knowing they’ll betray me next year no matter how carefully I coil them.
But here’s the thing:
If Christmas lights did have feelings, maybe they wouldn’t file complaints.
Maybe they’d file compliments.
Maybe they’d say:
“Glen may not be the best electrician, but he sure tries.”
“Glen brings us out every year because he believes in holiday magic.”
“Glen’s pole building may not be perfect, but it sure does shine.”
And that — tangled wires, flickering bulbs, stubborn clips and all — is the real heart of Christmas around here.
So from me, Glen, to anyone brave enough to face holiday lighting:
May your knots be fewer, your bulbs be bright, and your extension cords stay loyal…
at least until New Year’s.
