<< Back 12/18/02 When it’s 80, who deserves a holiday? By Jay Hardwig Eli, Nita, and I are fresh from a long weekend in Naples, Fla., spent visiting my grandparents. It was a lovely visit, thank you, although I have to say that South Florida is a strange place to be at Christmastime. There was a high of 79 degrees the day we arrived, a warm tropical rain had washed in, and there was someone else’s underwear under the bed in my hotel room when I checked in. (OK, that last one doesn’t have to do with Christmas in Florida, but it’s bothered me so much that I had to tell someone.) In and amongst this tropical scene were the familiar staples of the suburban American Christmas: inflatable Santas, toy reindeer on the roof, and blinking red lights in profusion. Except here, of course, the props were standing in front of hibiscus flowers and the lights wrapped around palm trees. It was all wrong, I tell you. Consider Eli. He’s had a tough go of it lately, having to work his poor 2-year-old brain overtime in an effort to understand the elaborate mysteries and rituals of Halloween and Thanksgiving. Not a month later, we’re throwing “flying reindeer” at him, not to mention Jesus Christ and Santa Claus. (In my opinion, he’s getting a little too accustomed to these elaborate holidays. I can’t help but think he’ll find St. Patrick’s Day terribly disappointing after all this, to say nothing of Flag Day. But I digress.) The poor bloke was just starting to put it all together, and we up and went to Florida. In the books, Christmas is mostly white, with a little bit of red and green. There is snow, and firewood, and gingerbread; everywhere hard-working northern yoefolk are wearing plaid and carrying themselves with frostbitten dignity. Down here, it’s warm rain, manatees, and sun-baked retirees in support hose and pink dinner jackets. And yet you find the same blinking red lights, inflatable Santas, and people pushing pfeffernussen into your face. What’s a 2-year-old to think? Or a 32-year-old, for that matter? Tooling around town in my grandfather’s poofy Buick, drinking rum punch and snacking on grilled swordfish, I found it hard to get into the Christmas spirit. (OK, that’s a bit of an embellishment. There was no punch. There was no swordfish. But there could have been.) We were surrounded by salt and sun and palms, and it seemed more that we should be wrestling alligators and wagering on jai-alai than getting ready to go caroling. Perhaps I am prejudiced by my Knoxville youth. Christmas there was rarely white, but at least it was cold. One wore mittens. It was a winter carnival, by gum, and I liked it that way. The season falls conspicuously close to the Winter Solstice, after all. I’m no shaggy-bearded druid, but I have always held Winter Solstice in high esteem. The solstice tells me this: darkness is breaking. While the coldest months lie ahead, they will not last forever. It does get dark in Florida, of course, but somehow it doesn’t seem as ominous when the temperature is a balmy 72. All but the least spry are still bicycling down to the boardwalk for a snow cone and an egg-salad sandwich. Our New England heritage tells us that, early sunset be damned, real suffering cannot occur between 50 and 80 degrees. These folks don’t need a holiday. On the second day of our visit, I was taking in a particularly garish yard display — elves, icicles, candy canes, the whole nine yards — when two boys in T-shirts and bare feet spilled into the yard. Bare feet! At Christmas! They were laughing and playing in the warm rain, sprinting ‘round and ‘round the Christmas decorations that had no right to be there; soon, they were joined by their Mom, who of course saw nothing wrong with a tropical Christmas. She smiled and waved and wished me well. I’ll confess I melted. It was such a happy scene. How could I hold a grudge? No, these folks don’t need a holiday. But they want one. And that’s good enough, isn’t it? I took another spin in Granddad’s Buick and came to this: Christmas is what you make it. Prophets and pundits can talk themselves blue in the face about the true meaning of Christmas, but I believe that meaning is yours to invent. If it’s a celebration of the birth of your Lord and Savior, go on and celebrate it, and do it right besides. If it’s a contemporary carnival for the winter solstice, so be it, very good. If it’s a chance to get presents, a chance to give presents, or just a chance to eat glazed ham, let it be that as well. Let it be all of these things. The true meaning of Christmas is what it means to you. Have at it. For many of us, including myself, Christmas means love. If we are lucky, we live our loves every day, but there are not many days quite so devoted to the idea. This is true, even if no one says as much. The love is there, in the mulled cider and careful gift wrapping, in the trimmed tree and cards a-plenty, in the shared story and night of song. It is there in the coming home, in the greetings, in the leaving. Of course there is Christmas in Florida. If I was looking for the spirit of Christmas in the inflatable Santas, the wreaths hung on stucco, the lights wrapped around palm trees, I was looking in the wrong place. It was there in the hearts of my grandparents, in the depth of their hugs at the front door. When my 89-year-old grandmother chased my 2-year-old son around and around the dining room table, it was there. When we sat with patient smiles and answered my grandfather for the seventh time when he asked us where we lived, it was there. When we sighed and parted and said, “I love you,” it was there as well. You don’t need cold to make Christmas, you just need warmth. Merry Christmas, y’all. And Happy Solstice, too. (Jay Hardwig is a teacher and writer. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)