Field Note #5: Christmas in July

To my uninitiated eyes, there appear to be at least two kinds of ‘Christmas in July‘ celebrations.    

Maybe you didn’t know there was even one kind of Christmas in July, let alone so many there were possible subcategories. This is understandable. Although it’s conceivable it might only be me not ‘in the know!’

What I have been able to determine through direct contact is that Christmas in July is an anthropological artifact with deep roots in seasonal RV parks, summer camps and discerning campgrounds all across North America.  I overheard a woman by the pool today say to her kids  “It isn’t summer till Santa comes!”   These are the kinds of things, I’m quite sure, one only overhears when a ritual is deeply rooted. Or there has been a pole shift. Or you live in Australia. Regardless, it wasn’t something I’d ever exclaimed!

It seems to be the kind of ritual rarely spoken about outside the culture that gave rise to it. I’m not coming right out and saying I think Christmas in July is a secret RV park ritual, but I can say my clarifying questions sometimes received polite but vague explanations. One person I talked to had a theory that it was just the sort of thing you had to experience to understand.

A week ago, I experienced preparations for ‘Christmas in July’ at a very particular kind of RV park. If you called it a resort, that would likely stand. It had gates with moving arms, electronic in-and-out tags, a well developed fee structure for visitors, and employed animators at the pool ensuring everyone was having a  five star time. I sure appreciated their spa-level shower lounges. 

I was fully unprepared for Santa arriving in a white convertible in a Jimmy Buffet inspired Santa suit. The car was outfitted with a pumped-up sound system blaring “”Do They Know its Christmas.” Santa may, or may not have had, a parrot on his person.

What I can confirm is that he was accompanied by a very exuberant Ms. Clause. She was modelling a short and trendy red-velvet skirt, and waved to us all with unmistakable  influencer energy. I can’t speak to where Mrs. Clause was. Or if she had a clue where her hubby was.

Bubbles billowed from a bubble machine in back of the convertible while Ms. Clause occasionally stood up to do an enthusiastic Christmas dance, reminding people it was time to turn ON their Christmas lights. Only one week till Christmas!  One by one, campers standing in front of their rigs flicked on their latest decor and tried not to seem too quick to compare with neighbours. You can’t tell me there was no prize involved.

I really wanted a photo of the 8  foot nutcracker with the bubbles swirling around it like a polar vortex, but I missed my shot. It all happened so fast. Anyway, I thought this was the end of it for me. I felt I’d grazed the experience. It might have even felt like enough.

Fast forward to yesterday. It’s week later, and I’m a ways on down the road. Christmas in July is no longer in my awareness, but it is, without my realizing,  now Christmas Eve.

It’s late in the day and I’m experiencing a certain kind of late-day weariness. My search for a campground for the night  has been wildly unsuccessful and has widened to include “ anywhere that will take us” and to be honest, I’d have slept in a barn.

Campground  after campground is full for the weekend but I’m determined. I ask the young woman at the last full spot for her advice, and she says, there’s a spot just north of the highway. Try there.

For a moment, I imagine the relief of hanging up my keys for the day and feel hopeful.

There is a small road-side sign and a broken down RV at the entrance to the campground which has a creek in it’s name so as not to confuse it, I assume, with a lakefront park. I notice a hand-written note on the window of what might have once been an office which reads  ‘Sorry. Club House Closed.” Another reads ‘Honk If you Need Me. Working around Camp.”

I decide I need, and honk hopefully.

Pippa and I get out to stretch while we await news of our fate. Pips pees next to a garden gnome partially hidden in an overgrown garden. I notice there are still Christmas decorations up in the windows, which I assume are from this past Christmas, and begin to doubt if they are open this season at all. But in a moment, our park-keeper arrives and gives us the news. He has exactly one spot left and I am welcome to it. It’s directly across from the pool. In an impulsive move I ask if I could have it for three nights. Sight unseen. This tells me I’m really tired. Yes, the man says. Yes I can.

And then he says something that sounds to my ears like  “You, our welcome guest, are most sincerely invited to join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon. There will be more than enough for everyone”  Ah, this explains the tinsel in the window! I’d forgotten. It’s now Christmas Eve!

“Festivities start at 1:00 tomorrow!” he ends with. You know how you know people are sincere about an invitation? They tell you the exact time to be there.

We are accompanied to a perfect shady spot directly across from the pool, which I quickly discover is the information transmission hub for the entire campground.

Because I can’t stand gossip, I lay in my bed with only one of the back doors open to the pool area, while trying not to get the lay of the land by accident. While straining to not listen, I pick up the familiar rumble of Harley Davidsons getting closer and closer. In a moment, three huge bikes with leather clad riders baring popular Ontario biker club insignia arrive and park at the seasonal site beside me.  I feel my face furrow just a bit and my lips go funny the way they do when I’m resisting reality and considering an escape.

It’s Friday night. It’s Christmas Eve. I have The Muppets Christmas Carol all ready to roll for a bed time viewing. I’m stoked. I’m signed up. Invested. I didn’t know it would happen, but I’M HERE FOR IT. I try not to read the sign on the tree at their site that says “Drive Carefully. Drunk Campers Crossing.” They better not freaking ruin Christmas, I try not to think, but do. I swear to god.

An hour later, I’m watching Biker #1, the closest contender for toughest dude of the three, playing with his two young daughters in the pool. There is much delightful squealing that dad is home. I note he looks quite different in Sponge Bob swim trucks and has a very well established Dad accent. Not the weekend dad one, the everyday one.

While they splash around, Bikers #2 and #3 open panniers, remove garland and begin wrapping trees at their site. Few words are spoken that I can make out from my position. A lawn Grinch in a Santa Hat is efficiently inflated. It’s clearly not the first time they have done this. They remind me of Thing One and Thing Two. I overhear someone say something about  “peppermint patty hot chocolate s’mores at the fire tonight” and I can tell someone really means it. Someone is really making hot chocolate smores tonight. For Christmas Eve.

I hear someone confirm Santa will be at camp at 1:00 pm the next day and before I know it, I’m working my entire Christmas Day around this event. And wouldn’t you know it. Biker # 1, is Santa.

These bikers weren’t here to ruin Christmas, they were here to bring  it.

And sure enough, at 1 pm on July 25th, while a little bouncy castle and Christmas treats are being set up  by senior campers near the club house, Santa is pulled around the park behind a lawn tractor, while the rest of the campers in this little park follow behind, many wearing Christmas themed pjs, face paint or Santa hats. The rest of us come out to watch the parade and wave.

Santa had a very respectable presence. Between choruses of perfectly pitched HO HO HO’s he beckoned the masses to participate in the ritual, like a seasoned Town Crier and ‘Come one, Come all ‘ could be heard echoing through the sun kissed cedars, as the procession wound it’s way to the Club House. Which was, in fact, NOT closed at all.

It’s funny. The first time I was on the road I preferred anonymously slipping in and out of open spaces boasting  barrier- free exits. I  usually chose edges and margins and rarely entered campgrounds if there was a good boondocking spot to be had. This time out? I  can’t seem to avoid accidentally becoming  part of things I used to prefer watching from a distance.

I’m so glad there was no room for us at the inns.