Southern Thing Column

‘Twas the Southern Night Before Christmas

Below is an excerpt from this week’s column on It’s a Southern Thing ( Click here to read it in its entirety, or click the link at the bottom.

’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,

The AC was running ‘cuz this is the South;

It was turned down low since Mama had the desire

To throw a big yule log on top of the fire.


The stockings that hung by the chimney looked wet

Because they were Uncle Earl’s, and his feet tend to sweat;

Camo sleeping bags lined the floor for the cousins

Who arrived in pickups and Jeeps by the dozens;


Aunt Lavette and Brother Dwight were debating football

Loudly discussing the championship bowl,

Until Mama said arguing was rude, if you asked her,

Besides, she added, “Brother Dwight, you’re the pastor!”


In the kitchen, MeeMaw was baking pecan pies,

PawPaw was nodding in a way that looked wise,

Turned out he was asleep in his old Barcalounger,

After eating the honey-baked ham, the old scrounger;


Visions of bass boats danced in his head,

And a shiny new shotgun filled with lead;

A grin started forming at the curve of his lips;

As he dreamed of Santa and his sack full of gifts.


The children were dreaming, instead, of new toys,

Of ATVs or dirt bikes that made lots of noise;

No need for snowsuits or sleds or that type of present

The weather around here is always quite pleasant;


Soon all was in ready for old Santa Claus,

And they all went to bed, even PawPaw;

Mama left out some biscuits and a glass of sweet tea

In case Santa needed a burst of energy.


Soon they heard a loud noise like the roar of an engine,

Dad grabbed his gun and pulled it under his chin;

Then he saw it was Santa, who was riding a mower

But Deere season was over; so the barrel was lowered


Then Santa stepped in, leaving prints with his boots,

Sweating in spite of his seersucker suit;

Dad hollered: “Close the door. Were you raised in a barn?”

Santa merely “ho hoed,” and set out gifts tied with yarn. There’s more to the poem, y’all, but it belongs to, so click here to finish it.

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