Living in beautiful Charleston, winter can often go by without much notice. Often, it is so warm at Christmas that an afternoon sunning at the beach is much more likely than even a hint of a snowflake. The lack of holiday weather always makes me look forward to the drive to my family home in Kentucky where a white Christmas is at least a possibility. As the Lowcountry becomes the piedmont of Central South Carolina, and eventually the foothills of the Appalachians, I become more nostalgic about Christmas’ of my childhood. The mountains wrap tighter around my Subaru as I near my hometown and signs of Christmas begin to come more frequent. Lights on all the houses, snowflakes, my breath fogging from the chilly temperature. Hillside lawns become the stages for Nativity scenes, Santa’s Wonderlands and the like. But, none can compare to my favorite holiday vision on my journey. It lies just north of Gate City, Virginia and it is what I have come to believe is the epitome of the holiday spirit in Southwestern Virginia.
I call him “Frosty the Racist” and he is glorious! He calls home the front lawn of a small home of modest means. He stands there with a perm-a-grin from ear to ear, rosy cheeks and an artificially lit top hat, which he politely tips to all who pass by.
Nothing special about this Frosty some would say, but they would be wrong. What makes THIS Frosty special is not his cheery disposition about the holiday season, but his strong views on political history, particularly state’s rights and slavery. See THIS Frosty takes up residence each year under a twenty-five foot tall flag pole draped with a large Confederate flag!
It is an odd pairing, an iconic figure of the peace and happiness of the holiday season standing in rank and file with the South’s most controversial symbol of oppression. Errrh…….heritage. Sorry.
How a snowman formed such views, especially in the short Virginia winter, is a mystery that keeps me occupied for the remainder of my drive home. Maybe he had relatives, long since melted, who stood sentry at Confederate campgrounds. Perhaps, he lost an ancestor in a tragic battle between the states. Rifle shot with through the snowballs…..who knows? Or maybe he just hates black people. But, I doubt he would ever admit that.
Each year I weigh my desire to know my portly friend’s motives for his political stance against my need to hurry home to see my family. I slow the car, as I am tempted to knock on the door of this humble little home and ask for clarification. But, in the end, I always just give a quick wave and wish him a Merry Christmas. I know I will see him soon enough. He’ll be back again one day. When the South Rises Again
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