Dueling Banjos Christmas

Brandon Figliolino

Dueling Banjos

December 19, 2015

            On October 31^st, I helped my father put up Christmas decorations on my childhood home. Normally, my father dedicates the day after Halloween as the official kickoff for his decorating blitz. Because of my family’s hectic schedule, however, he called upon me early to help.

            Christmas is a spectacle in our family. My father has been expanding his collection of lawn decorations, lights, inflatables, and the like ever since I was a child. Our house looks unrecognizable once he’s finished. My father’s Christmas display makes Clark Griswold’s look like something Charlie Brown would do at the last minute. I may be biased, but I believe my father’s light show fares well against the light displays of the millionaires and those people lucky enough to get a spot on televised light competitions. The photographs accompanying this story should help give evidence to this claim.

Every year, I’ve helped him decorate in some way. When I was young, I’d stick the North Pole way finding signs around the yard. In my teenage years, I’d help purge the sheds of their Christmas spirit. Now, as an adult with little time for anything, I typically walk past and give him a thumbs-up. I’m usually always free to help with the breakdown after the holidays.

 My father has a rhythm to his display installation, a madness no one could understand. He really doesn’t need my help, or anyone’s for that matter. But when he asked for assistance on all Hallows Eve, I reminisced over the times I was able to take credit for helping with the display, even if it was just sticking a yard sign into the grass.

            My father called early that morning. We chatted briefly about some fool who had gotten arrested, as well as my plans for that night. Then, he brought up the display.

“Hey, before you go, do you have a free minute to give me a hand this afternoon?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I need your help carrying that bear up to the roof. Ty is gone and I need to get it up first since it’s the heaviest and in the corner.”

“No problem. I’ll see you in a bit.”

I pulled up to the front of the house Saturday afternoon. I passed the fake tombstones that dotted the front yard. After tripping over the cord that secured a skeleton dog to a coffin my father had made, I wrapped around the side gate into the backyard. The yard was a mess of red and green and white. Reindeer and Santa Clauses, trees and elves, snowmen and inflatable nutcrackers all had found their way out of the two sheds. Dispersed along the entire surface of the patio and a large majority of the lawn, it was as though I was walking through an outdoor Christmas sale.

“Hey, B!” my father called out. I squinted up at the roof. He stood up there with his hands full of green cables. “Let me hop down and we’ll get that bear.”

“That bear” was a massive decorative item made out of dirty white tinsel that was nailed to a red platform. It held a present in its hand, which used to be red, but now was a dull pink; nature isn’t kind to outdoor decorations over the years.

My father descended one of the two ladders that were propped up against the roof of the porch.

“How’s it going, bud?” he asked.

“I’m great,” I said. “It’s looking pretty busy back here.”

My father grinned. “Yes, it is.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get that bear.”

After careful maneuvering, we hoisted “that bear” up to the roof. Once it was up there, we carried it to the front of the house, past the massive cloth ghost that hung between two windows. Once it was lowered into its spot, my father adjusted the base and secured it with the cables.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed.

“We’ve got both seasons up!” I said. “Now we just need a giant turkey and we’ll be all set.”

My father laughed. “Do you have time to help carry up a few more?”

I always have time for him.

A spiral LED tree, a Santa Claus riding a hot air balloon, and some penguins on sleds all made their way up to the back side of the roof.

“Sweet. We should be all set for now,” my father said. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s no problem, Daddyo.”

We climbed down the ladder and headed to the front of the house. The garage door was open, and filling the space where cars normally go were mountains and toys my father had built out of wood. Led Zepplin played over the stereo on the workbench.

“Well, I’m off. Have to go get a few things for the party tonight.”

My father nodded. “Sounds good, bud. Thanks for your help.”

“It’s no big deal.” We fist-bumped and I turned to head to my car.

It was then I saw something I didn’t recognize. Off in the corner, near more familiar boxes of Christmas decorations, was a large box with what looked to be an alligator on it.  Even though I don’t participate in the Christmas set-up as much, my father always tells me about new procurements and changes; except this one.

“Hey, what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the box.

My father, who had gone over to the workbench for twist-ties, glanced over. Upon seeing the box, his demeanor perked up.

“Oh! That’s something new!” He hurried back to my side. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you about it.”

I moved in closer. “Is that an alligator?”

“Yeah! Come here and check it out.” He set down the canister of twist-ties and picked up the alligator box. I looked at it, which had an alligator, a rat, and what looked like a possum sitting on a fallen log, all playing musical instruments.

“You know how our music system keeps freezing when it’s cold out?”

How could I not? Every time the temperature dropped below freezing, the contraption that controlled the synchronized lights and music would stop. Since my father would typically be working, it was up to the children to go out and reset the breaker on it until it started up again.

“Yeah, I remember. Does this play music?”

“It does! It’s a country band.” He highlighted the text that read I PLAY MUSIC with his index finger. “It plays country Christmas songs.”

“That’s different.”

I don’t particularly like country Christmas songs.

“It’ll be something new! I think everyone will like it.”

“Plus, we won’t have to worry about it freezing up,” I said.

“Exactly.” We fist-bumped.

“Where’s this going to go?” The house was already overcrowded with inflatables and lights, so finding a place for this band was going to be difficult, I thought.

“It’ll go right on the corner of the porch, next to the bay window and Santa’s Workshop.”

Right below that bear.

“Well done, Daddyo.” I patted him on the back this time. “I think that’s a good purchase.”

I was wrong.

Several weeks passed. The cobwebs draped over the porch lights and brick walls disappeared, replaced by wreaths and garland. It was Thanksgiving Day, and everything had been installed. The house was ready for opening night.

My father and I stood across the street, admiring the house in the morning light. The inflatables were lifeless, and there were no bursts of color from twinkling icicle lights, but even so, the house looked remarkably festive, even without snow on the ground.

“The house looks great, Daddyo.” I took a sip of tea from my travel mug.

“Thanks, bud. I really mean it.”

“I just can’t believe how much bigger it is this year!” I motioned to the second-story roof, where my father had erected a large Island of Misfit Toys made out of hand-carved wood pieces. “I mean, look at all that. There’s so much going on.”

“You’ll have to let me know how it looks tonight.”

My father worked a part-time retail job, which scheduled him to work Thanksgiving night. Not only would he have to dine and dash, he’d miss out on the first night of the lights.

“You want to know something crazy?” he asked me.

“Sure.”

“Normally, I count how many days it takes me to set up the lights. Last year, it was six days; three weekends, essentially. This year, I counted how many hours.”

“What’d you end up with?” I took a sip of tea.

“Thirty-six.”

I swallowed. “Are you serious?”

“Yup! That doesn’t even count the time building anything or taking it out of the sheds.”

“You definitely need to calculate that next time, Daddyo, because then you’d be well into the hundreds of hours. That’s just amazing.”

“It takes a lot of work, that’s for sure.”

I nodded. “Totally worth it, though.”

            “Absolutely.” We bumped fists.

            That night, my mother and I hurried outside at five-until-six. Already, a small crowd of neighbors was gathered in front of the house, all waiting for the big reveal. We exchanged hugs and hellos. By now, the weather had dropped and there was a dusting of snow on the ground.

            “Let’s get this show on the road!” I called out.

            Sure enough, at six o’clock, the house was illuminated in color. The inflatables rose, and the strings of lights popped on. Everyone started clapping and cheering, myself included.

            Then, the music started playing, except, it was not music.

            I’m not a country music lover. Taylor Swift is about all I can stand, and what my father’s inflatable hick band began playing was definitely not T-Swift, nor was it Christmas themed. The banjo twang that emanated from the inflatable’s stereo was awful.

            Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

            The song lasted a mere thirty seconds. After a brief reprieve, it started up again, with the same song.

Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

I wasn’t the only one who thought it was anomalous. I looked over to my left. My neighbor craned her neck, as if it would help her understand what she was hearing.

“Well, that’s a different song, isn’t it?”

“It’s coming from the country band, back behind the gingerbread house.” I tried to show her, but it was too hard to see behind all the other lawn ornaments.

“That’s unique,” she said.

“It sure is,” I muttered. “Doesn’t sound like Christmas music to me.”

I walked up the driveway and onto the porch to get a closer look. The way the possum’s eyes were closed, it looked dead. The possum’s mouth was open, and showing teeth, which made the inflatable even more unsettling. The alligator had a dumbstruck look on its face, and I couldn’t even tell what animal was playing the bass in the band. Maybe it was a frog?

The only thing that made the country band a Christmas country band was the Santa hat on the alligator, and the snowflakes on the box.

A few days later, my father asked me about the display. “What’d you think of it?”

“I loved it! It looked amazing.”

“That’s good to hear!”

I paused.

“Have you had a chance to hear the country band yet?” I asked.

“Yup!”

“It doesn’t sound very Christmas-like.”

“Yeah, I thought it would play Christmas music, but it’s okay.”

“I don’t really understand it, though.”

My father laughed. “Your mom’s gotten the same reaction from others. Some of her students have come by with their parents and thought it was weird.”

“Well, Daddyo, that’s because it is weird. Honestly, I miss the old music.”

“I think what we’ll do next year is put the band in the front of the lawn, that way people can tell that that’s where the music is coming from.”

He patted me on the shoulder.

“I guess that’ll work.”

When I would visit my parents’ house, I had to hear the twang of the banjo. With it sitting next to the wall of the living room, every time I sat on the sofa, I could hear it seeping through the walls, badgering me.

Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-de-da. Ba-da-da-da-da-duh.

On the fifth night, I couldn’t take it. I had to say something.           My father and I were standing by the front door, getting ready to go outside and snap pictures of the lights to post onto the local newspaper and media websites.

“I’m sorry, but I hate that country band. Hate hate hate it,” I told my father while zipping up my coat. “It doesn’t play Christmas songs and it’s awful. I can hear it in the living room all the time. Can we please turn it off? I’d rather have no music than that noise.”

“No worries,” he said. “We can turn down the volume. Let’s get a picture of the house first, okay?”

We went outside and started taking photographs, the noise blaring in the background. A few cars rolled past, their passengers admiring my father’s extravagant display of Christmas cheer. We captured a few solid shots and were ready to head back in when one car unrolled its passenger window.

It was our neighbor.

“Hey! Excellent job on the display again, Thomas!” she said.

“Thanks! I’m glad you like it!”

My neighbor started laughing. “I have to ask though, Thomas, why did you pick that song for the display?”

“Ha! I told you, Dad, it’s just not a Christmas song!” I popped my head through the car window. “That song is weird, isn’t it?”

My neighbor scrunched her face and wiggled her nose. “You know what that song’s from, don’t you?”

I pulled my head out of the car and looked at my father. We both shook our heads.

Our neighbor erupted in laughter. “Oh, my goodness! You two are a hoot!”

“Wait, I don’t get it,” I said.

She stopped laughing long enough to speak. “Have either of you seen the movie Deliverance?”

My father and I shook our heads again.

“It’s an old, old movie. Thomas, you kids were probably way too young to watch it when it came out, but you both should see it.”

We chatted for a few more minutes before heading inside. I promptly retrieved my phone and did an internet search of Deliverance. It was my turn to laugh.

Here’s a synopsis of the film: four male friends go on a canoeing trip. Seems innocent enough, right? Well, then one of them gets raped, and then they murder the rapist with an arrow through the chest, and then the rapist’s accomplice murders one of the four friends, also with an arrow, and then the canoes crash and one friend breaks his leg. The one friend, who wasn’t killed, raped, or hurt, takes it upon himself to murder the rapist’s accomplice with an arrow through the chest.  Then they sail home, broken and mentally unhinged.

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like the theme song from a movie about rape and murder, am I right?

I told my father, and showed him a video of the song being played in the movie.

“Unbelievable.”

My father was miffed at first. “How could we have known that song was about that?”

I shrugged.

“Why would anyone think that’s a good idea for a Christmas display?”

I shrugged.

“I’m turning it off.”

The next morning, I received a text message from my father. It read:

                                    MERRY DELIVERANCE DAY!!

I phoned him.

“Good morning, B!” he said cheerfully. “Do you want to play a banjo with me?”

We erupted in laughter.

“I ordered a replacement music system for next year,” he said after a few minutes of bantering.

“Are we going to keep the banjo band?”

“I think so, but it sure isn’t going to be making any noise!”

“Amen to that!” I laughed.

If there’s one lesson I can take from the Dueling Banjos Christmas inflatable, it’s this: There is too much information in the world for us to know and understand everything, but that shouldn’t stop us from learning and seeking out information. It’s imperative we continue to seek out knowledge. This betters ourselves and improves our perspectives. Being willing and receptive to information, whether it is what we want to hear or not, helps develop our wisdom and shape our character.

My father had unknowingly purchased a Christmas decoration that paid homage to a movie that was violent and offensive. It was what he did after he found out about it that makes all the difference: he adapted, and did so with good spirits.

So often we discover the truth about a situation or person, and become upset that that situation or person didn’t turn out how we had anticipated. That’s not to say we should halt any exploration of the world. Instead, we must continue searching and learning and analyzing—essentially living. It’s better to uncover the truth, and consequently, deal with it, than it is to live blindly and unwilling to change.

           

            On October 31^st, I helped my father put up Christmas decorations on my childhood home. On January 2^nd, I will help him deconstruct the North Pole he has erected. The lights will come down, the inflatables will fall, and that bear will be pulled from his perch on the roof and placed safely back into his spot in the shed.

            “Where are we going to put all this new stuff, Daddyo?” I’ll ask, pointing to the workbench upon which an Elsa, Olaf, and miscellaneous woodland animals lie.

            “I’ll just build another shed,” my dad will joke.

            “I’ll be there to help you build it,” I’ll say.

            Then, I’ll take a sip of my tea. My father will turn on the radio. Led Zepplin will begin singing about living and letting die.

            “Alright. Let’s get the house back to normal. Ready?”

            “Ready.”

            We’ll, fist-bump and then get to work.