I love holiday traditions. Every family has them. They are the things that become the stories that we tell our children and pass on like a treasured jewel. When I was little, the first order of business and the first of the Christmas traditions was putting up the lights. This had to happen the day after Thanksgiving. Neither rain, sleet or snow would keep Dad from getting those lights up. The long strings of bulbs and more extension chords than you could shake a stick at would come out of the attic. Every peak, edge and window was outlined with bright, colored lights. By the time he was done Dad had made our little cape cod home look like the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. The coup de gras was Santa and his bag of toys on the roof by the chimney. Dad didn’t stop there. The woman next door and the woman across the street were widows with small children. Two doors up lived an elderly couple. My big, wonderful, teddy bear of a Dad decorated their houses too. I wonder if they string Christmas lights in heaven.