A Front-Row Seat to Christmas
All smiles on the porch, just in time for the parade.
Last weekend, as the annual Christmas parade gathered just outside, we gathered with friends inside a beautiful old home perched perfectly along the parade route—right where the floats, bands, and performers stage themselves before the magic begins.
At times it felt delightfully chaotic. Funny cars idled with loud music, lights blinked on and off, and children darted about with the barely contained excitement that only Christmas seems to bring. Then, suddenly, there would be order — bands falling into formation, baton twirlers practicing small routines, lights tucked into hair, stuffed into tubas, and draped around drumlines as if even the instruments wanted to dress for the occasion.
Brian and I joined in the fun for the second year at the home of our friends Jackie and Jeremy, who are also new to Suffolk. Others drifted in from their neighborhood or from our shared circles — the sort of gathering where introductions happen easily and by the end of the night everyone feels familiar.
It was the kind of party where everyone brings something to share, but the hosts still do most of the heavy lifting — quietly, graciously, without fuss. Brian was enamored with the sausage balls. “Oddly sweet,” he said, and at that I knew exactly the recipe. When Jeremy mentioned the sauce was a mixture of ketchup and—
“Grape jelly,” I filled in.
It’s a Southern cocktail-party staple, after all.
The table was a catalog of nostalgia. Buckeyes — those crunchy peanut butter balls dipped in chocolate that everyone’s grandmother made. Funeral sandwiches: King’s rolls layered with ham, mayo, and cheese, brushed with butter and warmed until gooey and perfect. Hot chocolate. Cider. Hot buttered rum. An open bar with a simple instruction: help yourself.
People roamed easily through the house, laughing, visiting, admiring funny sweaters and Christmas suits. Sweaters stayed on indoors; coats waited patiently outside. From inside, you could hear the bands warming up — the distant thump of drums and the bright test notes of brass — and without anyone saying a word, the crowd slowly drifted to the porch to watch.
There was nothing about the scene that wasn’t familiar to each of us. Whether as watchers or as children who once marched in the parade ourselves, this was a night we all recognized. The anticipation. The best viewing spot. The shared sense that something joyful was about to begin.
Across the street, children lined up on the low wall in front of the funeral home’s parking lot, bouncing and swaying to the drumbeat, already half-dancing before the parade ever moved. I smiled at them, knowing exactly how they felt.
This is what it looks like when a hostess opens her home not just to neighbors, but to memory. When food carries stories. When laughter sounds like belonging. When a porch becomes a front-row seat to tradition.
This is how you host — not by perfection, but by invitation. By opening the door wide and letting people bring their own memories inside, where they mingle and warm and glow, just like Christmas lights tucked into a tuba.
Kristy
