The Holiday That Doubled (and Doubled Again)
When I was in my late twenties, I owned a shotgun-style house in a historic Tampa neighborhood called Seminole Heights. Now, I know some of you are wondering, what’s a shotgun house? Most folks call them porch homes, but according to my grandmother, the definition was simple: if you can open the front door and the back door and fire a shotgun straight through, the bullet would shoot clean out the other side. This is the same Southern grandmother who made every pitcher of sweet tea with half a bag of sugar, so it’s a miracle my siblings and I still have functional teeth.
Back to the house. I inherited it after my grandmother passed away. Built in 1922, it was the home where my father was born and raised. Side note: that’s why I have a tattoo of a double-headed alligator on my right pectoral, my way of honoring my family’s roots. As for why the alligator has two heads… your guess is as good as mine. Local legend claims a bootlegger in the 1920s barely escaped the jaws of a rare two-headed gator. More realistically, he had a run-in with two separate alligators and a bit too much moonshine. But the story stuck, as legends do, and it became the symbol of the neighborhood.
The house itself was a three-bedroom time capsule, packed corner to corner with boxes and used tissues (usually tucked between couch cushions for reasons only my grandmother understood). So, when I moved in, I spent days sorting through decades of her life, hauling bags to the curb, boxing up donations, and saving meaningful treasures for my siblings and cousins. In the center of the home sat a formal dining room with a cherry wood table, complete with a leaf to stretch from six seats to eight, and a matching credenza. Both pieces had their share of termite damage, but they were still sturdy, charming, and absolutely worth keeping.
I moved in during the thick of a Florida summer, and this house didn’t have central heating or air. What it did have was an orchestra of box fans and an old gas stove heater occupying a corner of the dining room right outside the kitchen. As the months crept toward December, I decided to host my very first Christmas dinner. I had the dining room table, after all, and a quick trip to the dollar store for long candles, a festive runner, and a few holiday odds and ends could make everything feel downright magical. Yes, I was on a budget, but you’d be surprised what you can find when you’re willing to dig.
That first year, I cooked Christmas dinner for six friends. The next year, I cooked for twelve. By the third year, I did the math and panicked. If the guest list kept doubling, was I expected to cook dinner for twenty-four people now? My friend Jason at the time (sweet Southern twang, boyish charm, the whole Alabama package) looked at me and said, “Stop cooking dinner for people. Just throw a party!” That idea clicked instantly. Then he added, “We’re gay. We’re fabulous and festive. This party needs a theme.” Without thinking, I blurted, “Reindeer!”
And just like that, the Reindeer Party was born. Not only did it become the theme, but I inducted my closest friends as Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen… and of course, Rudolph. What started in that tiny shotgun house, a house full of tissues, memories, and a whole lot of love, grew into an annual event that lasted for the next twenty years, expanding to bigger and bolder venues.
But its heart, its magic, its origins? All right there in that little Seminole Heights home. And my role? Santa of course!
Happy Holidays
