Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

December 2016

Sparkle and shine - Sue Barker

The presenter paused and smiled to camera 1, teeth pearly white and shining bright; three, two, one echoed in his ear. Live to camera, ‘Good evening this is Randy Ruckle live from Big Timber, in the county of Sweetgrass here in Montana. History is being made today; Jo-Beth and Phil Anderson are turning on their Christmas lights. There are 602,000 separate lights, which is nearly 1000 more lights than the previous record holders, the Gay family in New York, who have held the record since December 2014.’

The crowd all waived and cheered at the camera, the vision of a typical American Christmas. The countdown began, ten, nine, eight . . . while this was going on Randy was backing towards the house, the whole front garden was covered. There were twenty candy canes all in a row, Snowmen, penguins, polar bears, big fancy parcels, bright shining post boxes, Santa stop signs, and of course the thirty foot tall Santa; the jewel in the crown.

The counting continued four, three, two, one and . . . switch on. There was a terrific flash and an ear hurting bang and then nothing. A power outage had taken out the lights for five blocks.

With no power there was no broadcast, Randy expelled a great sigh. He smiled a false, cheesy grin to the crowd and said he’d return later to carry on the broadcast, time constraints permitting he’d be back, and privately thinking if anything, and he meant anything more interesting came through, he’d be off.

Wonderful, he thought, I’m stuck in this God awful town for even longer. He climbed into the camper van and sat down. All this fuss for a few lights he thought, couldn’t people get a life? Who gives a damn if the Anderson’s had more lights? When he became a presenter/anchorman he envisaged reporting on wars, and ground breaking stories, not these pathetic stories about sad people doing trifling things just to get attention.

His life sucked, not only was he not interested in Christmas, he had no-one to share his disinterest with. He would be glad when the holiday season was over. He closed his eyes and thought back to a time when he did enjoy Christmas. It would have been the mid fifties and he was about 7. The very thought of Christmas would make his stomach churn, life was wonderful. He remembered looking in the local toyshop window, there were trains chugging along the tracks; dolls all dressed in their finery; a red rider bb gun in the corner; so many toys, you had to push and jostle to get the best place, right in the front, then you could watch the abundance of toys, hope and expectation swelling your heart. The displays were always eye wateringly amazing, all the children would whisper aloud what they would like Santa to bring. They’d be good they promised.

His home was typical of the time, not much money to spare but plenty of love to go round. It was always the week before Christmas when his pa would bring the tree home. Oh the smell was something he’d never forget, in fact if he really tried he could smell it now, it was nose tinglingly fresh. They would drag out the box of decorations, many he’d made with his sister. They had candy canes and popcorn strung together, and tiny Chinese lanterns – such a beautiful sight. They always fought about who was to put the star on the top. Pa would have to lift them up to the ceiling; you could nearly reach the sky. And then, and only then, the lights would be lit, often there was a pop and they’d all go out, Pa would have to test every bulb until he found the culprit. Randy could remember a great deal of muttering under Pa’s breath but he couldn’t quite catch what was being said. It was just magical; he had loved Christmas as a child. It was a much simpler time.

The lights came back on, he heard his name being called, and he pasted on his jaw aching smile and descended the steps. Back in place, make-up re-touched and his hair slicked down, he turned to the camera. ‘Here we are again live in Big Timber, Sweetgrass, Montana, and the countdown starts, come on folks, ten, nine etc.’ He realised that the people here were only enjoying Christmas in the same way he had as a child. It’s just bigger and brasher now. Newly enthused he encouraged the crowd to go mad, the cheering starts and everyone is leaping up and down, three, two, one and . . . The lights go on and it is breathtakingly amazing. Everyone just gasps, surprisingly even Randy; it is the perfect effect for the Christmas Eve show. The crowd break into an impromptu chorus of We wish you a merry Christmas. The American audience lapped it up, it may be cheesy to some, but to the majority it summed up America in the holidays.

Three weeks later – Randy is very pleased with himself, he’d managed to pull off a ratings pleasing show, and the syndicate were satisfied. He was having three days off before he was going to Aleppo to cover the Syrian crisis; this is to be his last journalist job before he retires. When he was stuck with the job in Montana he had no idea that the Anderson’s were related to the chief executive of KXGN, they were so ecstatic with the broadcast they had rung uncle Bob and raved about Randy, so much so in fact their uncle was more than happy to grant Randy his last journalistic wish.