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.
