Christmas Traditions

Christmas at our house used to be both lavish and simple. It was lavish simply because there were so many of us. All of the brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, would come pouring into the house bearing gifts. Truly, the rug under our tree did runneth over. The jumble of presents literally poured out into the next room. Still, the gifts themselves were modest. Since there were so many of us, we drew names. Each person received one "gift," and then as many stocking stuffers as people had a mind to bring. We would eat dinner, Mama's wonderful cooking. Only after dinner did the real tradition of our household start. The game was tormentor versus victim. Yes, we literally tormented the children. It was a waiting game. The rule was, we couldn't open gifts until after dinner. Dinner was big and we all loved to talk, so it took some time. The children remained on pins and needles. We couldn't get them to concentrate on dinner, for the gifts under the tree called to them like sirens. "Stop talking and start eating!" they would scold. "Aren't you through yet?"

"Oh, no, not at all," we would say. "I believe I'll go back for seconds. I think I could eat another piece of that pie." (The kids would roll their eyes.) It was our payback for the way they pestered when we were trying to eat and converse. The tradition was long held, and I could remember my parents doing the same thing to me.

"You don't want seconds! You're just saying that," they admonished. They were old hands at this. They, too, played the game. Finally, we were stuffed. We really could not hold one more piece of pie. Conversation came to a lull. Then, and only then, did we move into the living room where the opening of presents would begin.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

We in the South have been dreaming of a white Christmas since the song hit the air. We'll be waiting till the cows come home I guess. White Christmases in the South are few and far between. Maybe some places here have them. On top of Monteagle Mountain, maybe (Tennessee), or Old Grassy, here in Georgia. Even they are more prone to get their snows in March or April. Here, we have rain. It's raining buckets right now. And maybe it will actually turn cold. "We might be gonna get us a cold spell," Daddy would say. I never had a sled. I once asked Mama why I never got a sled for Christmas, and she just looked at me and laughed. I might as well've been from another planet, the way that woman looked at me.

And yet, we did once get a snow. I don't mean a snow, snow. We get those sometimes, the stray flurry. Or once in a blue moon, the actual snow that "lays." (A laying snow, around here, is one that makes maybe a half inch; or, every in awhile, that luxurious, deep, lovely layer of a foot of snow. I've seen about three of those in my lifetime. But no, I mean once we got a SNOW. A blizzard. The Blizzard of '93 crippled the South. Remind me to tell you sometime about my experience of the Blizzard of '93. I lived to tell about it. Some didn't. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I remain in awe at the thought of it. But it was in March. Not December. I'm still dreaming of a white Christmas.

Need more humor about snow in the South?
An Inch of Snow and Southern Schools is my essay on our reaction to snow:
http://www.southernmuse.com/southern/snowclass.html

Christmas without Santa Claus

Poverty pervades the stories of North Georgia and of the American South. Poverty has shaped the life of Southern Muse, though in no way has my life been poor. The feeling of poverty came instead in stories that were told to us. It came to us as a fear from our parents. A fear that the Great Depression would return. The Depression, more than anything else, shaped the lives of the people of Franklin D. Roosevelt's generation. Those who were touched by The Great Depression in childhood never escaped it, quite. They passed those fears on to their children, and even their grandchildren, the child of the cellphone and big-screen TV, as hard as that might be to fathom. Here's a story that my aunt once told me.

She had been taken in. Her own parents were in dire straits, partly of their own making. Their parents took in my aunt and her two brothers. They stayed in a little lean-to in the small house, along with their cousin, Bill, who had also been taken in. That Christmas, their father came to them and told them there would be no Santa Claus that Christmas. Times were just too hard. They noticed, though, that Bill's daddy didn't tell him that. So they wondered about it. Santa Claus might, they thought ~ he might just come anyway. Christmas Eve, they waited and wondered. Would Santa Claus come? They finally fell asleep.

Christmas morning, they awoke and looked around eagerly. Sure enough, Bill's side of the lean-to had a little red wagon. It was a Radio Flyer, no doubt. Sadly, their side of the lean-to had nothing. Not a sugarplum. Not an orange. Not a shiny new penny. Nothing.

Alabama Zizzer Buttons

When I was a kid and we got a little bored, Mama would make us a zizzer button. She would take a long piece of thick thread, put it through the holes of a button, and tie the ends of the thread. We were young and naive enough to be thrilled by this. We would twist the ends of the thread around and round and round. Then we pulled at both ends. The button would zing around and give a high-pitched zzz-z-z sound ~ hence the name. Most of the world would call that a button-on-a-string, but being Southern, Alabama natives prefer the more poetic term.

Zizzer buttons weren't Christmas toys ~ no more than a June bug on a string, which wouldn't be around Christmas, and anyhow would have PETA up in arms. Today's kid would look askance at the humble zizzer button. But cell phones, CDs, and Star Trek were unheard of back then. Guitar Hero was unplugged. Times were simple, but from the sound of all that Depression talk, we might want to reexamine the lowly ZB!

Christmas Lights and Shepherds

We used to have a small community near our small town that covered the landscape in Christmas lights. Floodtown wasn't a town, by charter ~ just a community. People came from miles around to drive through the curvy little back roads of Floodtown and see the lights. Truly, it was a wonderland! Oh, there was no rhyme or reason to the design. This was not the result of a city-council committee or town planning. No, the local residents just took it upon themselves, each, to outshine the other. Floodtown Road started as an unlit back road that curved into nowhere. But suddenly, you came over the top of a hill and ~ there is no way to describe it. There was a sea of lights, a magical place, a wonderland. Strands of lights draped from tall lampposts. Lights covered each house and trailer. Statues stood in the yards and statuesque forms were built of lights. Homemade cup-lights adorned trees. Light-filled candy canes hung from eaves. For the next half mile, the landscape was awash with Christmas lights.

For thirty years, this was the tradition in my town. Everyone drove through Floodtown. It was the thing to do. Starting the day after Thanksgiving, the travellers would come. The little road went from being the road less travelled to having a steady stream that lasted from November till January. It amused and amazed me, driving down Old CCC Camp Road and seeing the long line of cars, but even us locals couldn't resist cutting through Floodtown most nights. If you had children in the car, it was a must. If you were not a child, it made you feel like one again.

The traffic got noticed. I suppose, at first, it was seen as a curse. Perhaps it was discussed in nearby Eton. Residents could have protested, I suppose, but instead they must have figured: "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!" City residents began to put up lights.

A few years ago, something began to change in Floodtown. There weren't as many lights. It didn't seem quite as magical. We discussed the probable cause: electric bills, family illnesses. The electric bills had been rumored for years, but in various ways, people had overcome the expense. Once a local radio station even footed the bill. It was seen to be a community thing. But year before last, there was a drastic change. The little kingpin house, the one just below the first hill, had no lights. They were not just turned off, they were gone. I sensed that perhaps the people had died. There were new people in the house. There were no lights. Although a couple of surrounding trailers made a valiant effort, the effect just wasn't the same. It appeared that the Floodtown tradition was over.

Nearby Eton, by then, had become accustomed to being the Christmas town. Out-of-towners stopped constantly, asking, "Where is Floodtown? Where are the lights?" (Floodtown itself is on no map. You just have to know how to get there). So, Eton began to present an annual light show. It is nice. It is fun. But it is not Floodtown. It is not magical, not a wonderland. Perhaps over time, it will be. But there is something very mathematical about the organization of it all. Floodtown just... happened. But what Eton did is nice for the kids, and certainly helps dispel the letdown of those who travelled from a distance to see Floodtown.

On the opposite scale of things, though, there is quiet simplicity. Topping a hill on a private drive at Cohutta Springs, recently, I was greeting by the pleasant shapes of shepherds, kneeling beside mangers. The Christmas decorations were cut out of plain wood and painted white. There was a Bible and a star, also cut out of wood. Everything was very still and quiet, and there was something magical in that simplicity... a reminder, perhaps, of the true meaning of Christmas.

Christmas Traditions

Christmas is approaching, and I'm enjoying the Christmas carols on the radio. I am dreaming of a white Christmas, though it's highly unlikely we'll have one. We have rainy days for Christmas. This is the South. We do dream of a white Christmas each year, but it's more likely to be gray and rainy, or unseasonably warm. Once in a blue moon we have snow. There might be a dusting of snow on top of Fort Mountain or old Grassy. Those cobalt blue hills look lovely tipped in white. Our holiday is stress free, so far. That's because we no longer do the big gift exchange. We don't join the shopping-mall fray or worry about over-spending on credit cards. We had just been drawing names for many years, and doing optional stocking stuffers. Even that got to be a little much, when small gifts just became too expensive ~ or too generic. So, our family scaled back on the old spending several years ago. Most of the kids (and the kids' kids) are grown, and they don't need to be trying to keep up with the Joneses on who gave the most expensive gift. We swap simple ornaments now (Chinese auction style). We sing Christmas carols, some gospel, and even some classic rock and country songs. We also play a few silly word games ~ Christmas themed, of course: acronyms and puzzles. (I always get the most obscure or classical Christmas carols, and miss the easy ones, so they laugh at me!) And we have our big Christmas dinner: turkey or ham, cranberry salad, and my personal favorite, the 'green stuff.' (It's gelatin salad. My sister-in-law brings it and we all love it). We swap stories, and we just have a nice time hanging out with family. So I'm looking forward to the big get-together.

Oakwood Plantation Christmas Open House 2008

Crandall, Georgia: Oakwood Plantation (also locally known as "the Colvard house") will be featured in this year's Christmas open house, sponsored by Whitfield-Murray Historical Society. The antebellum farmhouse, built between 1847 and 1852, retains many of its original features, including heart-pine floors, staircase, brick summerhouse, and a secret hiding place. Though built by an early, wealthy landowner of Murray County, Georgia, it reflects the plain, country lifestyle of functionality and Southern grace that marked the Appalachian mountain area. The two-story house was one of the larger houses in the young county, yet the style is simple and unadorned. The private residence will be open for tours on December 5th, 2008, from 6 to 9 p.m., and Saturday, December 6th, 2008 from 2 to 5 p.m. Additional free parking is available at the old store across the road. The owners will host the tour, assisted by officers and volunteers of Whitfield-Murray Historical Society. Tickets are $10 and will go on sale in November. Call the historical society at 706-278-0217 for more information.

Historical background of the house (from Murray County Heritage (copyright 1987, Whitfield-Murray Historical Society) (pp. 328-331): Built for Euclid Waterhouse, an early wealthy Tennessean, who earned his fortune in the copper-mining industry of Copper Hill, Tennessee, served as a banker, and then moved into Murray County, Georgia. Later purchased by "Major M.D.L. McCroskey, a Civil War veteran, farmer, and retired merchant." (330) Passed down to Julia McCroskey, who married Dr. T.W. Colvard (an early Murray County physician, who practiced medicine for about 50 years, and also once served as a superintendent of schools. Mrs. L.M. McCroskey and Julia Colvard deeded an acre of land for a "Union Tabernacle" church. Colvard's store sits on the property, as well, and has served as a Murray County landmark for many years (though the old store building was moved a few dozen feet and relocated across the road some years ago). There is a freshwater spring on the property, but it is no longer in use. The property sits at the intersection of Georgia Highway 2 and 225 in Crandall, Georgia. The address is 13260 Highway 225 N, Crandall, Georgia. It is not far from Calvary Baptist Church and cemetery.