A Holler Holiday

How the South does Christmas

The South does Christmas in its own register. Pine sap, and orange peel, holding tight like strings of popcorn balls. Midnight church bells folding into the fog, awash with light hanging slow and stubborn.

Magnolia leaves hold their green even when the world asks for red and gold. A stubborn beauty, my favorite kind.

Give me an Appalachia holiday or I don’t want it. I yearn for a Dolly Parton country singalong, far from the prissy neighbors and their gentle white lights curated from their Restoration Hardware catalog. Perfect wreath paired with a bow just-so. You walk past their porch and swear you need to whisper. I don’t want a yuletide that clean.

I’m drawn to rainbow lights and chaos. A porch lit up like a cosmic carnival held together with two extension cords and a prayer. Red, green, blue, hell even purple. Maybe a stray orange bulb with a mind of its own. It’s a celebration of color, pride in what God gave ya. Restraint is for people who don’t know how to survive a hard winter.

I grew up with that kind of Christmas. The kind of lights that buzz faintly in the cold and reflect off the strip-mine like someone shaking sequins over the hillside. Holiday spirit with a side of hard-won survival. Full of loyal folks who’d share all they had and then some, the origin story of merry making.

Every year I wonder if I’ll cave and convert to the white light people. Then December hits and the mountain muscle memory wakes up. I want that riot of light daring the season to be colorful and kinder.

So here is to the holler holiday. The one that remembers where we came from. The one that shines without apology.

The one that says joy is not delicate. Joy is electric.

Because a homespun holiday is not a place. It’s a feeling in the ribs, a reminder that holidays can be holy and messy in equal measure. You can take the girl outta the country, but the country stays put. It waits for December to come up and come round. Tacky or not, here we come.