Tacky Lights and Christmas Cheer

The other day while listening to NPR on the way into work, a story came on about the "Tacky Light Tour" in Richmond. Some genius entrepreneur thought to get some busses together, charge a fee and narrate a trip through some of Richmond's most over-decorated homes. Yippee! Each year, homeowners on the tour pander to the delight of the voyeurs - racing to out-do each other among lights, inflatable holiday figures, snow globes and other absurdities.

Of course, being NPR, following the inital "these are the facts" portion, came the obligatory talking heads who analyzed whether or not the "Tacky Light Tour" is art or not. Deep thoughts, no?

I thought about it again as I drove home that evening. My evening commute in December is hellish. It's dark, often wet, and involves heading toward Tyson's Corner to wend my way home. Tyson's is the worst case of suburban sprawl outside Orange County, CA. It's horrendous. Add in a little rain and Christmas and you might as well bed down in the office. (Come to think about it - I did get a blanket as a gift from one of our caterers...).

As usual, I drove along the windy, dark road that snakes around Tyson's, trying desparately to miss the holiday shoppers who insist on shopping at the same time the rest of us poor shmucks simply want to get home. With the morning's "Tacky Light Tour" story still floating around in my head, I began to notice lights strung on countless fences, eaves, windows and bushes. I had forgone my usual dose of NPR's Marketplace (On a random note, Kai Ryssdal, the host, is the only person that has actually ever made me interested in economics) and put in a mixed Christmas CD.

The road is without street lights so the holiday lights twinkled without the interruption of civilization. With the strains of MoTab singing "Joy to the World" in the background, I relaxed. I was no longer interesting in longing to break land speed records to get home. For a few minutes (until I hit the stop sign, and civilization, on Hunter Mill Road) I was ensconsed in Christmas magic - the kind that fills every moment when you are a child. I felt chills. My commute felt like a secret glimpse into a world of perfect contentment.

To all the people on the back roads in Fairfax County who strung lights this year - God bless you. Thank you for making my evening. Thank you for giving me a few minutes to stop and reflect on the joy and peace of this holiday season.

I'll cast my vote with the talking head who declared the light tour was art. Art is something that moves someone. There, in the blackness of a rainy suburban night, I was moved.

Merry Christmas.

Semper Fi

Today, while touring Arlington National Cemetary with my brother, E2, I came face to face with the human face of war.

E2 served two tours in Iraq - one in '03 and one in '04. As a result, I have not been able to watch visual news coverage from Iraq or any coverage of funerals or families back home. He came back. Many did not. It doesn't make it any easier to realize it could have been you captured in profile in the local paper, mourning a fallen relative, failing to appear as stoic as you feel you should. Likewise, I find it difficult to talk to E2 about anything war-related. It makes me sound horribly selfish, but I don't want to know what he saw, what he did, what it was like.

Without even thinking about a destination, we wandered through the cemetary, until we came to the area in which the Faces of the Fallen exhibit is housed.

Without preamble, E2 began searching for the men with hom he served, as a Marine, in the arid deserts of Iraq. Standing next to him while he pointed out countless fallen comrades was harrowing. We walked down the line and he continued to call my attention to greater numbers of memorials to men with whom he had fought side-by-side. I had to remind myself to breathe.

This time, I saw not memorials, but people. Snapshots of lives full of promise frozen in their prime. Tearful notes from classmates, spouses, children, friends, comrades.

However, there was one memorial which brought the whole kaleidescope of emotions to a crescendo. E2 stopped at that of Capt. Richard Gannon II. In a voice rough with emotion, E2 whispered, "He was my commanding officer."


Capt. Gannon, age 31, from Escondido, CA, is the reason E2 went back to war. After the ambush, E2 couldn't leave "his men" to fight and mourn alone. Putting all selfish interests aside, he voluntarily returned to the harsh, violent desert to serve another tour. Today, for a fleeting moment, in the still autmn sunlight surrounded by portraits of the bravest souls, I finally understood why.

Surrounding Capt. Gannon's memorial, were memorials of other Marines - all from E2's unit. All ambushed. All young. All brave. All gone.

I saw each one of them through E2's eyes today - as friends, colleagues, heroes, fathers, sons, brothers, friends, lives cut short in their prime. Passionate, valiant, stubborn, skilled men. My heart mourned each of them for a minute, and I silently whispered a prayer of gratitude that my brave, noble brother had been able to return home and share with me this moment of introspection and homage.

A quote by Admiral Chester Nimitz sums it all up: "They fought together as brothers-in-arms. They died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation."

I will never forget. I will never forget Capt. Gannon - the obvious impression he made on E2, the family he left behind, the sacrifice he and his men made, the men and women who continue to press forward in pursuit of freedom and liberty and valor.

Semper Fi.