Close your eyes.
Now imagine a quaint little cabin on the top of a mountain at the end of about a mile of gravel, dirt and potholes. The roof is covered with every sort of light bulb; green, red, the purple one’s that my uncle found on sale after Halloween. It looks like someone dropped a bag of skittles on the tin roof. In the sloping yard that normally is so high with grass that my uncle has literally sat on the porch and shot several turkeys while drinking his morning coffee, there are dozens of plastic blow up Santa’s, reindeer, and the re-purposed stork celebrating one of my many cousins’ births now covered in red ribbon and made to look like a Christmas flamingo. No one can see the lights; the house being miles away from any heavily trafficked road, but alas they are still lit, attached to the house with a series of bright orange extension cords that would make any fire marshal grimace. As I make my way past the garage, complete with pool table and bordello ligh