The Gourdaleer

Every family has traditions, some generations old, some that, as the family evolves, take shape and become standards that will be carried on down the family line.

Such is the case with the Gourdaleer.

I should preface this with a bit of background. My wife was raised in a non-holiday-celebrating religion and therefore came to me a somewhat blank slate when it comes to traditions. It took her a few years to get used to things like serving a full Italian meal along with Turkey at Thanksgiving, writing letters to the kids ostensibly from the Tooth Fairy, elves, the Easter Bunny, King Pictairn the leprechaun…on and on…but she has embraced it all.

Except, initially, for the Gourdaleer.

Or, rather, the Gourdaleer, its majesty and gravitas well deserving of bold and italics.

It came about several years ago when a warty, curved gourd caught my eye at a local farm stand one autumn. It didn’t matter that I had no use for it. I decided it needed to come home with me. Back home, gourd in hand, the idea hit me as I stood in our dining room admiring it.

When we bought our old house, there were few ceiling light fixtures. Instead, little metal plates in the ceiling with what I call light nipples poking down. They were just begging for a decoration. As I gazed upon the gourd, then at the little bare nipple above me, I had a flash of brilliance. I gathered up a spool of fishing line, packing, duct, and scotch tape (never know what you’ll need), and went to work. The gourd was soon shining its glory down upon the table and really brought the combination dining and living room area together in a special way.

My wife had other thoughts when she saw it. I’ve mentioned elsewhere her ability with languages. At least, with the dialects known to sailors, truckers, and Howard Stern. In this case, the words and phrases that flowed from her mouth told me I had really made an impact.

As fall gave way to winter and the holiday season, I decided that while the gourd was a proper dangling centerpiece for the harvest season, there needed to be something more appropriate to Christmas. I found the solution at our local Christmas Tree Store.

Some might call it a disco ball, some a Death Star. I called it perfect. Although I did need to reinforce the tape and fishing line after an unfortunate incident where it bounced across a casserole dish during dinner one night, shedding glitter as it made its way to the floor.

When we had light fixtures installed, I saw no reason to halt the new custom. The following spring, the Death Star was replaced by a magnificent gift from my wife-in-law (a story for another day) – a plastic gourd with string of tiny LED lights glued around it, battery included.

Sure, there was muttering from my wife about a friends’ betrayal, and I did catch her approaching the sparkling focal point more than once with scissors tucked into her pocket, but she got used to it. I’m not sure quite when it happened, but as the family slowly accepted that this was a new tradition (to the point that my oldest and her husband have done their own at their house), the moniker Gourdaleer was coined.

Best of all? This autumn, the day after I rehung the fall Gourdaleer, I found my loving bride propping tiny pumpkins around the light above its magnificence.

I’m hopeful that a hundred years from now, when the origins of the tradition are lost in the

mists of time and it is simply referred to as the Legend of the Gourdaleer, my great-great-whatever child will, with wide eyes, help gingerly take that generation’s obect d’art from a silk lined mahogany box, and walk in procession with their parents (with the sound of horns and strings following them) to their dining room, and carefully attach it to the nuclear-powered light fixture illuminating the entire house.

Ah, traditions.

Remind me to tell you about the Halloween Potatoes some time.