We were out in the yard over the weekend, grinding the browned-out summer gardens into mulch, when we noticed that the neighbors were at it again.

We haven’t yet formally met the newest family on our street. They appear to be very nice people, but ever since they moved in they haven’t slowed down long enough for us to get together and say hello. The kids are always racing around the streets on motorized toy vehicles while the adults, a group that has to include a few uncles and aunts, busily flit about the property in a never-ending quest for home improvement.

This weekend, the neighbors hammered away through the day and into the early evening. A pickup truck pulled in, unloaded things, and pulled away again for another load. One man went up and down a ladder while another scampered across the roof. They pounded stakes into the ground and uncoiled what seemed like miles of extension cords. Two men stared intently at a fir tree for a while, smoking cigarettes and conferring with nods and gestures. At dark, the reason for all this frenzied activity was revealed, quite literally, in a flash. With the flick of a switch, the entire property was awash in electrical light, a brilliant, riotous Christmas carnival that lit half the street.

“Wow, would you look at that?” I said to my wife as I imagined the neighbors’ electric meter spinning like a 78-rpm record.

The fence shimmered with twinkling lights that spelled out “Season’s Greetings.” There were several oversized Santa figurines in the yard, and a large herd of glowing reindeer pulling a sled. Plastic candles were fastened to the fence posts like tiki torches, the driveway was lined with big candy canes, and every bush on the property gave off an otherworldly light. In one corner of the lawn was an 8-foot-tall blow-up snowman, illuminated from within, that swayed in the breeze like a dirigible on its moorings.

“Gee, Dad, and you won’t even let us use a few lousy colored bulbs around the door,” remarked my daughter, who has always frowned on our boring habit of decorating only with tasteful white lights.

Frankly, I wasn’t prepared for such a jarring arrival of Christmas. Like many people these days, I often find myself stuck on or about Sept. 11. It has become a grim reference point of sorts – there is pre-Sept. 11, which seems far away, and post-Sept. 11, which has been a blur of months. Without their knowing it, my neighbors are helping to keep me on track with the seasons. No sooner had the twin towers collapsed than my neighbors had their house done up in flags and patriotic bunting, much of it left over from their zealous observance of July Fourth. When the president urged Americans to get on with their lives in the weeks after the attacks, my neighbors heeded the call with a passion. As Halloween neared, they got out the staple guns and ladders and turned their grounds into a wonderland of ghosts, goblins, black cats and spider webs. Passing that house every day after work, it was impossible for me to stay trapped in Sept. 11 for long.

Soon after Halloween had passed, the neighbors were off and running toward Thanksgiving Day. Down came the spooky adornments and up went the turkeys and cute little Pilgrim boys and the bundles of cornstalks lashed to the fence posts. Over the past weekend, before the Thanksgiving turkey carcass had even been picked clean, my neighbors had catapulted through time again and joyously ushered in the Christmas season for everyone who lives nearby. They’ve moved on, boldly, and have taken us with them for the ride. One day I hope to actually meet these new neighbors, for whom a house is not just a place to live but a festive public calendar with which to mark the cycle of the seasons for the rest of us.

I may have to wait awhile, though. New Year’s Day is right around the corner.