A woman is tormented by footsteps in the apartment above hers. She pounds on her ceiling with a broom. She screams "Shut up!" out the window. Finally, she runs up the stairs, broom in hand, to confront whatever monster is above her, infringing on her quiet. What she sees makes her stop in her tracks. "He's the one making my ceiling shake?" she asks, incredulous, her anger melting like snow on a coat…

My husband was always the keeper of the lights. For 30 years, he strung them wherever I saw fit in the front yard on everything green, in the backyard on a skinny dogwood, on a small Christmas tree that we put on the deck, inside on a big tree, over the mantle, and above the sliding glass door…