Putting roots down and lights up on a Chattanooga Christmas
We stood on the sidewalk gazing at the wisteria tree. My partner Holly—a fitting name for the season—examined the tree as if it were a complex piece of modern Japanese art. Most of the leaves had fallen off by this Thanksgiving Day.
Still, the braided trunk rising and splintering into branches of twisted vines, bare as they were, was a sight to behold. Holly’s blue eyes widened. Her sweet James Dean dimples deepened into the question at hand: White or colored Christmas lights?
Finally, she offered, “White. It’s classic. But also represents rebirth, something new. Like weddings or baptisms.”
“I agree,” I nodded, angling to compromise. “But what if we did the house in white and the wisteria in color?”
She gave me a look I adore. It’s a look that humors me.
“For juxtaposition. Our eclectic spirit meets our traditional house. Classic and funky like us, like Chattanooga.”
She stared at me like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, as if I had lobsters crawling from my ears. “It’s something to think about,” she said, kissing me on the lips.
It was decided. White lights.
She walked to the front porch, taking in the cream columns that accent the soft yellow hue of the house—this slice of Southern lemon meringue perched on a hill above the banks of the Tennessee; crests of Signal Mountain to the north, Lookout to the south.
Pausing on the steps, she looked back and said, “Our first Christmas in our new home.”Christmas came early this year when Holly and I purchased a 19th century “Charleston” style house on the North Shore. January will mark the anniversary of our first visit to Chattanooga and the beginning of our new chapter.
When we first met, as writing partners and musicians, the connection cut deep, like a lit match to gunpowder. To borrow from a song made famous by Johnny and June Cash, “Hotter than a pepper sprout.”
We’d set out on a Southern sojourn with three objectives: write, road trip, and find a new home we could be inspired in. Chattanooga was on our radar. People always ask: Why Chattanooga? Easy answers are the music, the vibe, the hospitality. We also see ourselves in Chattanooga—a city that’s had ups and downs, a city in the midst of rebirth.
We arrived after dark. Just past the Brainerd Road exit lights twinkled from mountain to valley illuminating a welcome to the city. We drove to the St. Elmo neighborhood to preview a house before meeting with our realtor, Lindsey Yerbey. Minutes into our hunting, our car broke down. The clutch refused to engage, protesting in growls with each attempt to get it in gear.
We agreed, “It’s a sign.”
A woman brought us Cheez-Its and beer from her house while we waited for a tow. “I’d invite you in, but I’m leaving to pick up my kids,” she said. Our breath fogged up the windows in the cold, but Chattanooga earned its distinction as the birthplace of the tow truck that evening with fast service.
Lindsey picked us up the next morning to show us Scenic City listings in Highland Park, St. Elmo, and Missionary Ridge. But she saved the best for last, the modest plantation-style house in North Shore.
We envisioned sitting on the balcony, clacking at typewriters in the warm breeze like William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor. With nine-foot tall ceilings, vintage chandeliers, claw foot tub and architectural molding encasing defunct fireplaces, it had character and history.
“This is the house and neighborhood I see you in,” Lindsey said.
We drank bourbon at a bar on Frazier. I jotted down a list of pros and cons for each, but we always came back to the yellow house with porches.
The Shakespeare quote I’ve used to describe Holly sums up the house—though she be but little, she is fierce. We made the decision to put down roots, 600 miles from where we’d started in Baltimore, Maryland.
We closed on a stormy day in March. Tornado sirens wailed as we cut through pages of signatures like the wind whipping through the wisteria tree back at the home awaiting us. I carried Holly over the threshold just as the power went out.
Our first guest was a cow-cat that slinked beneath the fence and strutted down the brick garden path. She chirped out gravelly meows. We nicknamed her Moo Chat for her black and white Holstein markings and our new hometown. We didn’t know where she came from or who she belonged to, if anybody.
Our first night was a cold one spent awake shivering on the wooden floor with one blanket. Morning couldn’t come soon enough to get the gas to heat the furnace and water turned on. With the comfort of heat restored Holly turned her focus, “We’ve got to get a bed.”
Holly prowled estate sales and online auctions, bringing me along for extra muscle to load the truck with dressers, bookshelves—and bed—culled from Red Bank to Rossville. We stood in our street, furniture teetering off the tailgate.
Janice Myers, retired school teacher and unofficial mayor of our block, sat at her dining table. “I was looking out my window and thought, ‘They know what they’re doing, don’t interfere.’ Then I kept seeing y’all struggle with that furniture and thought, ‘They don’t know what they’re doing.’”
Janice walked out the back door of her Craftsman house where she’s lived for 45 years. She introduced herself and loaned us a dolly. I cooked her shrimp-n-grits as a thank you. I was adding cheese to the grits when she arrived.
“I love cheese but it takes so much time to shred it up.” Janice paused, amused by my technique.
“Well, I take singles of American cheese and just slap ‘em on,” I said.
“Just slap ‘em on, huh?”
We sent Janice home with leftovers. The next time we talked Janice told me she’d shared my recipe with her church members and everyone’s excited to try the “just slap ‘em on” method.
Home was coming together. Holly was nesting, hanging artwork by her grandfather, her hero and native Kentuckian who keeps her rooted to this region and draws her—us—to this sense of place. And the wisteria vines blossomed with fragrant lavender flowers.
Then like the storm that ushered in our homecoming, another wind swept through, toppling the wisteria to the pavement. It lay in the street, a felled beauty that struck us and our neighbors hard. The postman who’d fought daily to untangle himself from the creeping vines shrouding the mailbox was the only one not crying.
Janice put us in touch with Lucas who helped her with yardwork. He resurrected the tree and braced it for potential oncoming storms. Neighbors walking by cheered the wisteria’s return and gestured thumbs-up in approval from the sidewalk.
It was a landmark decision to pay for the tree’s restoration, a testament to neighborliness. And our friendship with Janice grew.
She began dropping by. First with kitchen utensils and knick-knacks she knew we needed or might want. Then with a wreath and ornamental garland for our mantle. Moo Chat’s mom rang our doorbell with canned food and Moo in tow with her Cheshire grin that seemed to say, “I brought my suitcase.” We welcomed our houseguest like family while her mom went out of town.
On Black Friday we bought red bows and white outdoor lights. After sunset we stepped out onto the front porch with over a thousand bulbs. Holly unspooled the strands, draping them around bushes and columns, instructing me where to hammer nails in eaves to hold lights in place.
Moo Chat perched on the railing until fireworks launched from riverboats for Cheer at the Pier scared her away. Under radiant bursts of TNT we strung flickering lights on the wisteria branches. We stepped back to admire our home, illuminated.
A few days later we celebrated Holly’s birthday. Janice stopped by. She’d been sitting at her dining room table writing Christmas cards when our lights came on. “This is the first time we’ve ever seen lights on it,” she said, recounting compliments from the block. “It feels like a true Christmas looking at those lights.”
Janice asked Holly if she could hang lights on her house. “I’ll fix you up,” Holly said. With a ladder and some twist ties, Holly made short work of stringing lights around Janice’s railings and front window.
Neighbors dropped in on Janice to compliment her house too. Holly and I hadn’t known it had been almost a decade since Janice had Christmas lights.
“My husband’s been dead nine years,” Janice explained. “That was his thing. I’d just kind of stand there and hold the ladder or go get the hammer. I was no hope.”
We’d shared dinners and sidewalk chats, exchanged gifts and containers of leftovers, but decorating for Christmas lit a path for forging deeper friendships.
I sit at our dining room table typing, thinking about traditions that bring us joy. I look out the window at the glow created by the person who beats the drum of my heart. The lights on the wisteria pulse, the tempo is a heartbeat at peace. A symbol of love, friendship, new beginnings. And here it stands, illuminating our first Christmas.