Christmas in November

I’m not naming names, but a neighbor on Sunday night did the unthinkable.

There I am, out walking the dog, and I look up and what do I see?

That’s right, you guessed it: A Christmas tree.

Adorned with white lights, pushed toward the front window in what was once, a hundred years ago, a parlor, there it was, a big tree, conical and unmistakeable.

Now, look, I get it, there’s a kid there, a boy about two, it seems, nice kid, it seems, the dad carries him around, talks to him as if he is sentient, it’s all good.

But isn’t this the wrong message to send junior?  Four days after the culling associated with Halloween we’re on to Christmas?

Shouldn’t dad be taking the boy-o into cranberry, turkey, sides and stuffing territory?

Reluctantly, I’ve contacted the city’s Department of Youth Services, let them take a look.  Probably tip of the iceberg, I don’t know, not for me to decide.

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