Southern Fried Christmas

My family’s northern tribe will soon trek to our southern tropical climate in Corpus Christi on the Texas Gulf coast, anticipating our Christmas reunion.  They’ll leave their snow tires and down coats behind, but pack their superior sassy attitudes.  In our own friendly war between the North and the South, verbal shots will be exchanged as we quibble over which is better: a traditional Christmas with fresh snow or a sunny, warm weather holiday season.

The northern clan insists they’ve got it tougher dealing with outdoor decorations in frigid temperatures.  At least they don’t have to hang artificial icicles while swatting mosquitoes and set up Santa’s sleigh in the midst of dandelions.  Sun screen and mosquito repellant should come in “Gingerbread” and “Peppermint” fragrances.

Their lawn scenes stay put throughout the holidays.  Ours have to be moved, perhaps several times, to mow the grass.  My friend once donned a red suit and a white beard and became grass-cutting Santa.  He acquired a sizable audience by the time he weed-whipped around Rudolf’s hooves.

The visitors moan about the lack of stately spruce or pines.  Palm trees abound with unique architecture that makes them difficult to decorate.  Palm fronds are thorny and vicious.  They should be classified as lethal weapons.

“Palm trees look like Pebbles Flintstone’s top knot,” our little cousin notes.

Wrapping palm trunks in lights and leaving the top knot unadorned, is popular.  From a distance at night, they rise like glowing magic wands.  However, finding the perfect color scheme is problematic.  Trunks cloaked in white lights, topped with red bulbs are festive, up close and personal.

“Yeah, but from a distance it looks like Goliath and his buddies stopped to have a cigarette break on someone’s lawn,” notes the family chain smoker.

“That one wrapped in blue copied Marge Simpson’s hairdo,” says the cartoon addict.

“I dunno,” counters our slightly tipsy uncle, “Reminds me of a swizzle stick.”

We’re more likely to have a visit from the Christmas Ferry than the Christmas Fairy.  Sailboats, decked with colorful lights and wreaths, litter the bays.  Santa sometimes arrives by barge.  We favor holiday beach themes.

“Mrs. Santa should hide her hubby’s Speedo or send him for a bikini wax before Christmas,” grouses Grandma as we pass the Santa as a Surfer Dude display.

“Who knew Santa had an outie, instead of an innie?” a niece chimes in.

Occasionally, weather throws us a curve.  Several years ago, it snowed on Christmas day.  One-hour photo labs melted down trying to keep up with snapshot traffic from the rare event.  The occasional forgotten automatic lawn sprinkler created an icy spectacular.  Before coffee, our guests spent Christmas morning thawing frozen pipes with blow dryers.

On Christmas day, the men pull their lawn chairs around a huge deep-fat fryer perched in the driveway.  Sipping eggnog, they’ll debate when the deep-fried turkey reaches perfection.  The process requires enough peanut oil to make peanut farmers almost as happy as OPEC.

“Mmmmmmmm.  Southern fried Christmas smells good,” little cousin drools.

“Southerners’ fry anything!” Gramps scoffs.  Later he’ll heap seconds on his plate.

Before dessert, the family will debate “pee-can” versus “pee-kahn’” pie.  Hubby downs the last piece and ends the discussion.

After Christmas, our visitors help drag the weary Christmas tree to the beach where it will re-mingle with nature and replenish the sand dunes.

Next year the southerners head north for the holidays, after visiting the grocery store frozen food department to test drive winter coats, fresh from mothballs.  We’ll arrive armed with gifts and crisp southern verbal volleys for the northerners.

No matter where we celebrate, we’ll still wish everyone “Merry Christmas, y’all.”