by Katharyn Privett
When I was very young, the space between Christmas and New Year’s Day was the most melancholy of all places. The blast of tinsel and cookies, wrapping paper and company, echoed across our home and spilled into the cold, dark air. My mother would worry over a few extra pounds, noticeable against her polyester jumpsuit, while meticulously wrapping up martini glasses and silver skewers that had pierced olives, pineapple, and slices of lime. The glitz and glam of the early seventies were indominable forces to be reckoned with, yet not much was left of it all by January 2nd. There was only one year that escaped the “great removal of all things Christmas,” and that year broke my heart.
It was 1977, and my parents were in the throes of early divorce. There were words thrown about that I didn’t understand, and so I would lie upon the red shag carpet of the living room and pray for Christmas. If only there were a tree, I pleaded, twinkling and softening their voices the way it always had when they spoke of hidden Barbie townhouses and Tonka trucks in the back closet. Yet, even as December grew closer and the winds of North Alabama grew colder, our house remained markedly devoid of the greenery and magic that could save us all.
I can still feel the ragged emptiness of that moment here at fifty-nine, and somewhere from a road long behind me now, the Brothers Johnson begin to sing along a downbeat. Funny, isn’t it, how music can take us back? The little girl in me taps her toes to a funky sound, slinging the fairy dust of a lost Christmas into the ether. And suddenly, I remember everything.
There wouldn’t be a tree in our home that year. My parents had decided to forgo it all and chose, instead, to drag us to the Smoky Mountains for the holiday. Our cabin was opulent, an enormous construction of wooden beams and frosted glass windows. And I was inconsolable. Where were the simmering mugs of hot cocoa? My grandma? Our beloved stockings? No matter, I was assured, there would at least be a Christmas tree. My father and uncle begrudgingly foraged a sapling (the only instance of criminal behavior I’d ever witnessed from them) and leaned it against a window. Here, they pointed victoriously at the bent and unwilling imposter, is Christmas.
But, of course, Christmas would not come that year. As its eve levied itself against all that I had ever known, the only jingle to be heard was ice against a whiskey glass. Even as a child, I knew that something sacred to that day had taken the last train out of town. Santa supposedly visited our cabin in the mountains, leaving vinyl records and glittery, slick lip glosses. And so, I played “Strawberry Letter 23” over and over against the emptiness of that alien place until the reality of what was to come finally sank into my bones. Christmas had, in fact, been stolen from us all—but I had a Robin Hood constitution.
And I had every intention of staging a coup.
We packed it all up and drove back south on December 27th. Something reckless inside of me grabbed and tore at every outdoor decoration, every lit snowman, or just anything red and green as it whirled past my window in the backseat. I wrapped those images in glistening paper, tattered as it might have been, and tucked them down deep for later. Here was Christmas. It had waited for me to slip along a barren highway in its gentle and jolly attire. It had lingered in the trees, in the stars, in my dreams, as it does for all children everywhere. And somewhere along the way, I thought I heard the jangle of Old Saint Nicholas whispering through the Alabama pines. Of course, it was probably a wheel bearing gone rogue—but I’ll guard that memory, regardless of its verity. Sometimes, us grandmas need a little magic, too.
That was forty-nine years ago. I was just a fifth grader, but the refuge that was carved between Christmas and New Year’s Day will always remain. It was a place of hope, a waystation of sorts, nestled against the dark of winter and lit from within. There is still such a weightlessness to the days just before the calendar tips and the tax man begins to reassess our worth. All expectation has come to its finality, and what is done is done. Yet, for just a handful of hours: we are suspended in time. That zip of holiday energy ricochets along the corners of our homes, crackling against what we may become and all that we have been.
Within that gap, no matter our age, the clock has no warrant. It is the space in between. Its swell buoys the seeds of the incredible: the birth of kings, the prevailing innocence of children, and the fortitude of fire. In Norwegian culture, it is called “Romjul” (derived from the word “rúmheilagr”), a meditative time spent with family and friends. But, for me, it will always be more of a prayer.
And on this tiny farm where I live now, it’s the time I carve away to study the seed catalogs, plotting and planning in the slow, steady return of the sun. It’s worth marking. Years ago, I planted a Yule tree in the yard, front and center, to anchor hope as the days slip into the dark. It’s against the rules, really, as she’s not a “working tree” bearing fruit, or nut, or even shade. She argues with me upon occasion, especially in the steaming months of summer, as I navigate the mower around its boughs: I am working, gathering these hours of green for later. Perhaps, that’s true. She’s a forager, this tree, of the space between, betwixt, and beyond the daily labor of a homestead.
Even tiny farms need such a refuge, don’t they? And so, I decorate my solitary Yule tree in popcorn and cranberry, leaning into her feathery needles, and find within them the girl I was so long ago. She gathers me, in that liminal space, and offers all the treasures hidden from Christmases past. It all happens within a breath, that mending of time. It turns out, that tree works hard for this farm–or, at the very least, for this aging farmer.
Today, I have children and grandchildren filling those in between days with merriment and shenanigans. Our home bustles with evergreen, fudge, and the anticipation of “Baby New Year’s” coronation. We plan our dinner as any good southern family would: black-eyed peas, greens, cornbread, and cheap champagne. The night of the countdown, Jimmy Stewart will grace our screen in black and white and struggle to understand the meaning of life on a frozen bridge. And while my sons will groan at the ritual, I’ll stand in the yard and belt “Auld Lang Syne” against the sparklers and exhaustion, steadfast in my mission. They will gather around me, those feral memories of all things irresolvable—yet precious—and I will count my blessings. It’s good work, I know. For, once upon a time, I had to forage them from the backseat of a Chevrolet.
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photo credit: Vilmantas Bekesius, Unsplash
Katharyn Privett, PhD, is an English professor, writer, and farmer in rural Alabama. Her grandmother was integral in her upraising, and therefore had an impact on her understanding of working with plants and the earth. As an organic, biointensive micro-farmer focused on sustainability, Katharyn continues to reach out to her neighbors in an effort to teach them to grow their own food with minimal impact to their financial resources or the environment. From seed to harvest, she also works to echo her Cherokee roots in an ethical and holistic communion with the land. Katharyn is a Master Gardener and also the creator of the Southern Fried Witch podcast. Her book, Farmcracft: An Ecology of Witchfolk is forthcoming in 2026.