In a Holidaze at Aunt Joan's: Christmas Eve Memories and Dysfunctional Family Tradition

I loved going to my Aunt Joan's house as a kid, it didn't matter what time of year but the holidays were the best.

She lived on Garris Drive in Mobile, off Repoll Road. From our house on Easter Lane, there were two ways to get there. The first was the short route, driving from Tanner Williams Road and turning onto Eliza Jordan Road, which was long, bumpy, and dirt-covered. (It’s been paved since then). The second way was my favorite, usually taken if we had to stop off and pick up something from the store, usually K&B. A red-haired man I had a crush on worked there, as well as a cashier my dad was overly friendly with. The K&B stop wasn’t the highlight for me, although I did enjoy the purple neon glow of the store and the jolly eye candy of the red-haired man.

The real reason I loved the long way was that we would circle around and pass the Mobile Regional Airport. I absolutely adored the glow of the blue runway lights in the darkness, a shade of blue I always associated with Christmas. Nowadays, LED technology has taken over the runway lights, and the blue in modern lighting just doesn’t have the same magic.

When we finally arrived at Aunt Joan's house on Christmas Eve, there would usually be smoke billowing from her den's chimney and a few cars sitting in her driveway, with my uncle Billy's confederate flag proudly waving on the flag post in the corner of her yard. The smell of country cooking filled the air, not just from Aunt Joan's house but from all of the neighboring homes.

Aunt Joan's Christmas tree, from what I remember, was always a smaller artificial tree decorated with colored lights, a star, garland, and colorful ornaments—nothing over the top, but just enough to say "Merry Christmas."

Christmas Eve at Aunt Joan's was a big affair for the family. Her house was a large three-bedroom with two bathrooms, a spacious kitchen that opened into a large dining room, a mid-sized living room in the front, and a huge den, known as the family room, built onto the house. There was also a large gated back porch where we usually hung out during the summer when we weren't running around the 13-acre property. The dining room table was always filled with Christmas fare and plenty of country sides: turkey, ham, dressing, mac & cheese, fried squash, fried okra, turnip or mustard greens, black-eyed peas, and a lot of other dishes, plus Aunt Joan's amazing cornbread. My mom would bring along her specialty homemade sweets: fudge, divinity, peanut brittle, and pies—pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie, and pecan pie.

Over the course of a few hours, the house filled with not only Uncle Billy and Aunt Joan, but my cousins Lynda, Marie, La Shea, and Missy; my Aunt Beverly and Uncle Gene, their sons Brian and Darrin; my Uncle Mike and Aunt Cindy, their son Mikey; my granny; and of course my mom, dad, sister, and myself. Things would be festive and peaceful during dinner, but my uncles and dad enjoyed their alcoholic beverages, mostly starting with beer, though whiskey flowed a bit too, especially as the night drew on.

After dinner, everyone would gather in the den. Christmas albums by Alabama or another country artist played on Aunt Joan's huge console stereo as the gift exchange began. Since the family was so large, each person was assigned to give a gift to someone else. One year, my mom was chosen to give my cousin Lynda a gift. At the time, Lynda was into Legos, but my mom, not realizing the difference between Duplo and Lego—or possibly making a decision based on price—gifted Lynda some Duplos, much to her disappointment. I remember one year my granny gave me a gift: the Mickey Mouse Disco record, which I actually love to this very day.

As I mentioned, alcohol was flowing, and we all knew it was only a matter of time before something would break up the gathering. Usually, shortly after we all opened our gifts, just like clockwork, it happened: a fight. It started with screaming and ended with someone burning rubber out of the driveway, which was dirt and clam shells. By the way, this is one of the reasons, besides rattlesnakes and cottonmouths, that none of us ran around the yard barefoot throughout the year. If you've ever walked on clam shells without shoes, you will never forget the feeling.

Anyway, back to the fight: somehow, my Uncle Mike, who I loved dearly, was usually at the center of the argument. The more he drank, the more brazen he became. I usually sat oblivious to what was being said, usually in what I call the "Holidaze" but I always knew when it was time to go home. The moment the wrought iron gate on the back patio swung shut and we heard the shells in the driveway flying as the engine of Uncle Mike's vehicle roared and lulled in the distance before disappearing, my sister and I knew Christmas at Aunt Joan's was over until next year. It was time to go to the car, head home in silence, then go to bed and hope Santa didn't forget our house.

To this day, I think of the effort Aunt Joan made to make Christmas special for all of us. Even though it usually ended in disaster, we all still had a great time. As dysfunctional as we were, we loved each other very much and looked forward to getting together each year. The year my Aunt Joan and Uncle Billy moved out of that house and into a trailer next to their newly built gas station, Garris' General Store, marked the end of our family get-togethers. But those twisted, yet great memories live on.

A Heartfelt Christmas Memory: Daddy Decorating Our Yard

Inside our house, Christmas was a cozy and laid-back affair. My mom, sister, and I would decorate the tree or engage in some kind of Christmas craft, like painting cookie dough ornaments. But outside, it was a different story entirely. Armed with a hammer, nails, and our old Christmas tree lights, my dad would transform our home into a mini winter wonderland. Although his intentions were heartfelt, his patience often wore thin, and he’d drop more colorful language in one night than most people do in a lifetime.

My sister, Becki, holding me steady on the ledge of our house on Easter Lane, circa 1980

Over the years, his vision for our yard evolved. It all started with a few wreaths made from a discarded artificial Christmas tree he found at the dump, with working hurricane lanterns filled with kerosene hanging in the middle of each. He then moved on to tacking Christmas lights to the eaves of our house and building large Christmas trains and presents out of old wood for the yard. He was a true genius with wood. One year, he made life-sized wooden cutouts of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—though I never quite understood their connection to Christmas, they were still awesome. My dad's woodworking skills weren't limited to discarded manufactured wood either. He created all of Santa's reindeer, including Rudolph, from logs too green for firewood and thick branches from various trees being cleared from the vacant lot near our house. My only regret is not getting decent photos of my dad's handiwork each year. I don't believe photos exist for every year, just a few scattered among photo albums that my mom and sister had.

In addition to making our yard festive, there were nights when Daddy would load us up in the car or his truck, and we’d drive around Mobile or Pensacola, through neighborhoods admiring the lights on other people's homes, or through heavily decorated parks. Sometimes we’d drive over to see if the USS ALABAMA Battleship Memorial Park was lit up, though I can’t recall if it ever was back then. My memories have faded a bit over the years. I'm not sure if Daddy was just looking for inspiration or if he truly enjoyed taking in the sights of other people's creations, but it seemed like every time we returned home, he’d add something new to his display. He would work from October through December, gathering ideas from magazines like Ladies' Home Journal, Southern Living, Family Circle, and countless others.

By the time New Year's Day arrived, Daddy would have the decorations down and already packed up and stored in our storage room in the house. I dreaded that day because it meant the season was over until the arrival of Thanksgiving.

These memories of my dad's dedication to creating a festive atmosphere are some of the most cherished of my childhood. They remind me of the joy and magic of the holiday season, and the lengths to which my dad went to make it special for our family.

Letters to Santa: A Holiday Tradition and a Deep Personal Story

 

Writing letters to Santa was always a cornerstone of my Christmas season. Mama had a unique way of making Santa seem like he was my real grandfather. It was a bit ironic because I did have a grandfather—Mama's stepdad, whom we called PawPaw. Although PawPaw was distant with me, it seemed a mythical being was more family to me. But as a kid, I never knew any better.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on Santa's lap at Springdale Mall when I was about 3 or 4 years old. I was so shy that I forgot everything I wanted to ask Santa for, except GoGo Boots. I think he misunderstood and I got cowboy boots instead. Years later, at 16, I found myself sitting on Santa’s lap again, this time at Macy’s in NYC. I was homeless then and told him I wanted a place of my own. I don’t think the Macy’s Santa understood completely, but he said he would do his best.

Not me but that was my style at 16, though different hair

Mama loved Christmas, and our house was always filled with Santa decorations. Watching Miracle on 34th Street gave Santa a definitive story in my mind, reinforcing the magical aura around him.
My letters to Santa started out like any other kid’s—filled with lists of toys and gifts I wished for. But over time, they evolved into more. They became a place where I poured out my thoughts and feelings, almost like a journal.

I remember one year, in third grade, our teacher Mrs. Kell gave us an assignment to write a letter to someone. I wrote to Santa. Mrs. Kell, who was supposed to be a family friend, wasn’t pleased. She told me Santa wasn’t real and made me write another letter to someone else. I chose PawPaw, but it was my grandmother who wrote back, not him.

Despite Mrs. Kell’s disbelief, the cookies we left out for Santa were always eaten, and the milk was always at a lower level in the morning. To me, that was proof enough that Santa was real.

One of the most personal letters I wrote to Santa was when I was about 9. In it, I came out to him, telling him I was gay and that I was being molested by a neighbor two doors down from me, the father of a girl in my same grade. I wondered if Santa hated me for being gay. Writing that letter was a vulnerable moment, but it felt safe to share it with Santa, as he would understand and possibly give me guidance to make the abuse end. I never got the guidance, but at the age of 12, it did end.

Even now, though I don't write letters to Santa, I still believe in the spirit of Santa and the magic that surrounds his character. The spirit of Christmas and the joy of those childhood memories fill me with warmth and wonder every holiday season.