I was fortunate to grow up in rural America with a mountain culture that got to experience two Christmases.

If that sounds familiar, you might be thinking of a scene from the comedy movie Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. You know the one. Ricky Bobby’s wife sits the family down and delivers news that is supposed to hush the room. Divorce. The serious kind of conversation where voices drop and eyes look for the floor.

Instead, one of the kids lights up and hollers, “Two Christmases!”

No tears. No shock. Just quick math. Twice the presents. Twice the desserts. The parents are breaking apart and the kids are already counting presents with wrapping paper.

That joke always landed around here because it was not far from the truth. We really did have two Christmases. Not because of divorce, but because the mountains never fully let go of the old calendar.

Around here, folks called it Old Christmas.

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Old Christmas traces back to 1752, when Britain and its colonies switched from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian one. To fix centuries of drift, eleven days were dropped overnight. September 2 became September 14. Christmas moved officially to December 25.

But in rural Appalachia, tradition did not move just because the government said so. Many families kept celebrating Christmas by the old date, which now falls on January 6. The calendar changed. The mountains shrugged.

This tradition held strongest among Scots Irish families whose ancestors settled these hills generations earlier. Christmas was not just a church holiday. It was tied to the land, the weather, the livestock, and the slow rhythm of winter. You did not rush it. You did not reschedule it. You let it run its course.

Old Christmas was quieter than December 25. The big meal and most of the gift giving usually happened on the new Christmas. Old Christmas was about visiting, storytelling, and paying attention.

And there were rules.

You were not supposed to wash clothes on Old Christmas. Folks said if you did, you would wash away something special from your life. Some said it might be luck. Some said it might be a loved one. Either way, no one was eager to find out. The wash tubs stayed empty, and the clothes could wait another day.

There was also the old belief that at midnight on Christmas Eve, the farm animals could talk. Cows, horses, mules. If you went out to the barn and listened quietly, you might hear them speaking plain as day. But there was a catch. Anyone who overheard them was not supposed to repeat what was said. Some stories went further and warned that hearing it at all could bring bad luck. Most folks decided it was better not to test the matter and stayed indoors, letting the animals keep their secrets.

People watched the weather closely, too. The twelve days between Christmas and Old Christmas were said to foretell the weather for the coming year. A cold day meant a hard month. A clear day meant a good one. Snow on Old Christmas was taken as a sign of a good growing season.

There were other signs and bits of lore passed along just as matter of fact as weather talk. Water from springs was said to be sweeter on Old Christmas. Fires burned brighter. Spirits were closer. It was a thin time between worlds, or so they said.

Old Christmas lingered in parts of southwest Virginia, eastern Kentucky, western North Carolina, and East Tennessee well into the twentieth century. In some families, it still does. Not announced. Not advertised. Just observed. A visit made. A pot put on. A pause taken.

For us kids, it meant one more day of leftovers, one more trip to see kin, and one more chance to stretch Christmas instead of packing it away. It felt like a bonus round. A secret Christmas slipped in through the back door after everyone else had moved on.

So when that kid in Talladega Nights yells about two Christmases, I laugh every time. I know exactly why it sounds like winning the lottery.

In the mountains, we did not need a divorce to pull it off. We just needed stubborn ancestors, an old calendar, and the good sense not to wash clothes or rush something worth holding onto.

Merry New and Old Christmas to you and yours!

Be curious, not judgmental.

Till next time, that’s the story from the ‘Back Forty’. — John W. Peace II

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John W. Peace II is a fifth-generation farmer from Big Stone Gap, Virginia, where he grew up on his family’s dairy, Clinch Haven Farms, and still lives today with the farm producing livestock hay. He’s a proud father to Trey and Shelby Peace, and partner in life to Cathy Swinney. A Virginia Tech graduate with graduate studies at Penn State, he served as the youngest Chair of the Wise County Board of Supervisors (2004–2008). John co-owns urTOPIX LLC (urTopixLLC.com), a Democratic campaign training firm focused on reaching rural voters that is sponsored by www.RuralAmericaRising.com PAC. He’s also a two-time Amazon bestselling author. Learn more at www.JohnWPeace.com.