The other day, talking with Planet senior designer John Yardley, I came smack up against my still-incomplete knowledge of life Floridian.John and I were trying to come up with a logo that would reappear throughout this week's issue, something that would say "Florida during the holidays" without being too obvious about it.
John, like all the paper's designers, is based in Atlanta. That's where the Planet's parent company, Creative Loafing, is located. But even up north in Georgia, he's clear about what won't work down here.
"You don't want snowflakes."
Oh. Right. Or ice skating. Or people wrapped up in down coats and woolly sweaters in a one-horse open sleigh.
But what, then? What sums up Winter Wonderland in the Sunshine State? Palm trees draped in tinsel? A pink flamingo in a Santa hat? Katherine Harris and Mel Martinez as Mary and Joseph, riding the camel to Capitol Hill?
I grew up on Cape Cod, where every other holiday card depicted lone fishing boats decorated with single wreaths, or lobster pots in the snow. These images bore little relationship to contemporary Cape reality (certainly not to mine — my father ran a dry cleaner's, my mother worked in a bank, nary a lobster pot in sight), but they were part of the local mythology.
I don't have a sense yet of what the equivalent holiday clichés are in Florida. Or maybe I'm on the wrong track. Maybe we do want snowflakes. After all, thanks to "White Christmas" and untold numbers of TV commercials, snow-covered New England is pretty much the apotheosis of Yule American-style no matter where you go. Some holiday symbols prevail, tropical climate or no tropical climate.
Halloween pumpkins, for instance. I wasn't expecting them. Somehow I'd figured, "Pumpkins? Florida? Nah." But there they were last month, in Vermont- calendar-worthy profusion, stacked up for purchase in Old Hyde Park Village for the benefit of the SPCA. And, once I got over the incongruity (do pumpkins even grow in Florida?), I bought one. Because it reminded me of home.
Or rather, some idea of home, or what home's supposed to look like. I don't think pumpkins grow on Cape Cod, either, but everyone's doorstep had one, at least until Mischief Night took its toll.
In Florida, because so many of us come from Somewhere Else, we bring our traditions with us. And yes, it seems that does include snow. Lots of it.
Check out this issue's listings of holiday events. Hillsborough County's Third Annual Festival of Lights: "… games … holiday treats … snow." St. Pete's Santa Parade and Snowfest: "… snowball throw, toboggans." Tampa's Santa Fest and Holiday Parade: "talking Christmas tree … outdoor ice-skating rink … 30 tons of snow." And I hear International Plaza's restaurant row, Bay Street, will soon be holding snowfalls every evening.
Besides begging the obvious question — namely, where do they get all this snow? — Tampa Bay's orgy of frozen precipitation makes me suspect there's something else at work besides holiday mood enhancement. It's called gloating. "Hey, look, you poor fools shivering up in Boston and Chicago and Maine, we can throw snowballs, ride toboggans, brag about having 30 tons of the white stuff — and the next day it's gone. Hell, it's gone by the time the party's over. No shoveling, no crusty brown slush mountains at the side of the road — we've got winter under control, and you don't."
In fact, I think I know what the most appropriate indigenous symbol for Florida winter holidays should be: A big middle finger pointing northward. (OK, maybe with a festive red ribbon tied around it.)
And why confine the exultation to December? Why not plan for a big blowout every time there's a blizzard in Buffalo? We can call it SchadenfreuDay. Frozen daiquiris instead of hot chocolate. St. Pete replacing St. Nick. In lieu of Christmas cards, we'll send postcards saying "Wish you were here?"
Aw, listen to me. I used to think climate was one of the dumbest possible reasons to move. Snow melts, spring comes, most of life is spent inside anyway. You don't like the cold? Turn up the heat!
But I guess it's clear — I've drunk the Kool-Aid. Don't get me wrong, I groused all through the long, looong, LONG (when's fall? doesn't it ever get cool? when's fall?) hot summer. But wow. This weather is worth moving thousands of miles for.
I think it really hit me Friday night. It was a nice evening for many reasons, not just the temperature. First, I had the pleasure — mixed with relief, frankly — of attending an event recommended by the Planet that turned out to be entirely worthy of the recommendation. Not that this is unusual — but none of us is prescient, and you never know when your hopes will be dashed. Luckily, we have smart people recommending things here — and so I will wholeheartedly pass on the same recommendation to you: Go see the haunting show of mixed-media works and photographs by Matt Larson and Rebecca Sexton-Larson at St. Pete's Arts Center. Though husband and wife, they've never shown together before now, and curator Valerie Leeds has created evocative juxtapositions that enhance the work of both.
And then … Ribfest. I told a colleague that my partner and I had gone to Ribfest, and he laughed heartily — I guess we're not Ribfest kinda guys. Well, we beg to differ. First, the ribs were damn good; Larry went for local favorite Fat Fred's, I tried Johnson's from Virginia — we liked Fred's better. And Johnny Lang sang his head off and wailed away at his guitar with panache while still remaining cute as a button.
But the thing about all this that kept us pinching ourselves was the date: "Do you believe it's November 13th? We're outside at 9 p.m. eating ribs and listening to live music and it's NOVEMBER 13th!"
Sorry, I know this is all old hat to most of you, but where I come from, the ideal month for picnics and outdoor concerts is definitely not November. Nor is it ideal for leisurely walks along the water at night, which is what we did post-Ribfest. The boats in the marina reminded me of one Florida holiday tradition that I haven't yet experienced: lighted boat parades, as ubiquitous around here as temporary snow. I know such parades are held in colder climes as well, but I suspect we'll be more comfortable watching our local versions than we would be watching, say, Lake Michigan's.
Hmmm … should a lighted boat be our official winter-in-Florida logo?
It's all a moot point now. You'll notice as you peruse this issue that John Yardley eschewed logofication entirely, going for a more subtle typographical theme instead.
He claims the snowflakes on the cover were someone else's idea.
This article appears in Nov 17-23, 2004.
