Their old building, up the street from Sadie the Tortoise's pen, and down from the Little Brown Wiener Dog's house, out by where Jane's Creek passes under the railroad trestle, has rustic charm but lacks an uptown address. Piled outside of the old building on the edge of a pasture is a heap of circular trimmings from wooden forms that shape the lights. Earlier this week, I fitted one over my wrist as a bracelet and studied a huge tree-round ringed with years of growth. The Palms planted in 1906 lift their heads into the dark layer just out of reach of Neon Row. Birds roost tucked into the fronds, heads buried under wings.
Signs glare and thousands of twinkly white holiday lights festoon the Plaza.
McKinley lectures a bevy of lighted trees clustered at his feet. The interior of Jacoby's Storehouse glows with a surfeit of light. I appreciate the creative HeartBead window display, and learn something of the arranger in the care given to the placement of the beads. Parking space lines radiate outward like cilia giving a sense of midnight movement to the pedestrian bare center of town. A few stray cars collect a light frost as their owners dally in the string of bars or catch a late show at the Arcata or Minor Theatres.