The Kid Down the Hall is such a sentimentalist. He is 15. It's a beastly, selfish age of bad taste in everything. Only, this Kid knows what's truly important: The traditional yuletide experience.

        “You bet we can, son,” I say. “This will be the best dysfunctional family Christmas ever.”

        It is the little things that matter during this special time of year. Family, friends, smiling faces, the freakin' Christmas tree crashing out of the crummy stand.

        “The lights are ready, sport, that's for sure,” I say.

        We have more lights this year. More than ever. White lights, glowing in the winter night. Battalions of those twinkly lights that are supposed to look like icicles hanging from the gutter. Strands of hundreds of pearly white lights adorning the bushes.

        Colored lights on the big ol' tree. Just because we can. You could see our house from Jupiter.

Extension-cord conundrum

        “Extension cords, Dad,” the Kid says.

        “What?”

        “Extension cords. That's how the electricity gets to the lights.”

        There's always a catch.

        One of these years, I will make a scientific drawing of the proper way to get all the extension cords connected, so the lights actually, you know, work. Because every year what happens is, I get all the plugs plugged, then triumphantly haul the wrong end of the decisive plug to the outlet on the wall of the garage.

        By now, the neighbors know this. A source close to me tells them when I'm putting up the lights. The neighbors take a break from the grim business of having holiday fun to spectate.

        “Let's go watch that idiot Daugherty try to put up his lights,” they say.

        Then, there is the tree. “How 'bout the tree, Dad?” Kid says.

        “You got it, Sparky.”

        Experienced Christmas tree buyers such as myself understand the need for a tree with a straight trunk. Straight trunks fit cleanly into the old, metal stand all of us have had since 1958. They allow us to position the tree into the crummy stand in slightly less time than it took to grow the tree from seed.

        Often, though, we select trees with arthritic-looking trunks. We like their shape. They're “full.”

        I believe the makers of cheap, metal Christmas tree stands to be sick, evil people, who sit there in front of their cheap, metal Christmas tree stand-making machinery laughing at the misery their products cause.

        The neighbors gather, joyfully, outside the family room window as I gamely try to jam the arthritic tree trunk into the old, metal stand. It is, for them, a time of great mirth.

Little peace at church

        “We're going to Christmas Eve service, right Dad?” Kid asks.

        “Indubitably, big guy,” I say.

        Last year, we thought the service was at 9, so we got there at 9 to see some kids strumming guitars. Then we read the sign out front that said the regular service was at 10, so we drove home for a few minutes and came back at 10, only we'd misread the sign.

        OK, I'd misread the sign.

        The real service was at midnight. Or something. After two round trips to church for no reason, I lost all consciousness. On the third trip, we got to sing “Silent Night” while the wax from the candle dripped all over my sport coat.

        Did I mention the egg nog in the gas tank?

        Contact Paul Daugherty by phone: 768-8454; fax: 768-8330; e-mail: pdaugherty@enquirer.com.
       

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