The lights along the roofline of the town hall come on just before dark, about an hour after sunset. Strung in series, like those hung on a Christmas tree, the lights outline the sectional dividers of the octagonal roof.
I noticed them for the first time this year, although the lights may have been hung a year ago. I would have to ask my wife to be sure; she has a better memory for these mundane details, than I. The lights add a carnival atmosphere to the town hall, at the entrance to the three-block-long main street.
During the day, drivers and walkers are greeted by a twenty-foot-tall totem pole, as the turn onto the main street from the coastal highway. It is a popular landmark for those giving driving directions: “Turn at the totem pole, then park anywhere along the main drag.” At night, the totem pole becomes invisible, so the midway-styled lights of the town hall are the directional marker.
When I saw the lights for the first time, as I recall, last evening, I thought the gaudy display was distracting to the quiet ambience of this seaside village. The lights seemed out of place—maybe too commercial? Tonight, though, I had a different thought. Maybe the lights, while being a bit too bright, add sparkle and life to the town. The lights are the town’s growing pain—like a teenager who wears a bit too much eye shadow or slaps on too much cologne. The town needs to learn to grow into its decorations and that most of the time, understatement sounds loudest.
