TAMPA – Christmas time again, and I like the season. But it’s a very different business here in peninsula Florida where we don’t have December, except on the calendar. Unlike most of the mainland, hereabouts we don’t have four seasons. We just have two — summer and mid-summer. (OK, from time to time a macho cold-front makes it all the way down here and gives us a few cold mornings. But mostly it’s toasty all year.) So, celebrant or not, believer or not, enjoy the 25th of this month, whether it’s five below or eighty above outside. So getting into the Christmas spirit here takes more imagination and effort than in places where songs about sleigh bells ringing and “Let it Snow, let it Snow, let it snow” don’t require translation. The weather outside here might be frightful from time to time in what we call December, but not from severe cold and deep snow. Palm tree tops do not glisten. All the icicles here are inside and store bought. We don’t have to worry about them melting on the carpet. On Christmas Day we’re more likely to have to blow gnats than to have to throw another log on the fire. Santa Claus may be coming to town. But to make his deliveries here he’ll have to ditch that heavy red coat. And there will be a distinct shortage of chimneys for him to slide down. He may have to check under your mat for a door key. And then hope the security alarm doesn’t bring the cops down on him who’ll try to arrest him as a porch pirate. Santa: “Honest officer, I wasn’t taking anything. I was leaving things. I’m Santa Claus.” Cop: “Right, and I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury. Let me see the registration papers on that sleigh out front. And what kind of animals are those pulling it?” This would almost certainly get cleared up down at the station. But it would put Santa waaay behind schedule. Cozying up on the couch with a fire in the fire place, a toddy in hand, and snow on the window can be very attractive on Christmas cards, and perhaps even in practice. In my travels I’ve experienced and enjoyed winter beauty, but only in short doses. (This Tampa native’s first experience with real kick-a** winter came when I enlisted in the Navy and was sent for basic training at Great Lakes Naval Training Center north of Chicago in mid February. It was a revelation. Like the Baptists — sudden and total immersion.) Weather aside, we celebrate Christmas here pretty much like the rest of the country. It’s a great break from the day to day, a mood elevator for most, at least if the family doesn’t talk politics over Christmas dinner. A bringing together in a country that could use some bringing together just now. Yeah, the holiday has been secularized. Save for committed Christians, it’s become less about the birth of Christ than about gift giving, eating and drinking more than we should, and holiday parties, though HR departments have pretty much taken all the fun out of office parties. “What did you just put in that punch, Homer? Skylar, make sure there’s enough tofu. And Francine, go home and put on some clothes that cover your particulars.” As joyous as the holiday may be, it’s not without its stresses. Gift giving can be a chore when there are people you should give a gift to but have no idea what it should be. It can be a burdensome obligation, one that the makers and retailers of Chia Pets rely on this time of year. But there’s a real joy in giving someone you care for something you know they will like. And by the way, this is almost certainly not fruit cake. In my long life I’ve only met two people who’ve admitted to liking fruit cake. And I’m not sure they would stick to their story if polygraphed. I didn’t see it, but I’ve been told that in a magazine survey long ago of its readers’ most desired and least desired Christmas gifts, fruit cake finished a couple of spots below no gift at all. Writer Calvin Trillin long ago advanced the theory that there is only one fruitcake, not thousands of them as most believe. He says when people receive the fruit cake as a gift, they give it away again so quickly that the velocity of its changing hands gives the impression that there are many fruit cakes. But, he insists, there’s only the one.  Outlandish, some say. But I’m keeping an open mind. Like all of us, I’ve received Christmas gifts I’ve been obliged to act enthusiastic about while knowing it will soon sit on a shelf in the Salvation Army thrift store. Sadly, I’ve probably given some of these a well, which is why I don’t shop at the Salvation Army thrift store for fear of running into what I gave Aunt Eunice for Christmas last year. With all the duds, given and received, some happy and memorable ones stand out. My Christmas present in 1947 sits atop a bookcase in our living room. It’s a Lionel electric train. Long inoperable of course. The transformer that used to power it looks like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab in those great 1930s monster movies. But it gladdened my five year-old heart on that Christmas day. And it still gives me pleasure to see it on display. I counsel Americanos to pay as little attention as possible to the grinches who’ve tried to neuter Christmas by replacing it with the “Winter Holiday.” Talk about thin gruel. These cultural killjoys attempt to cancel a popular celebration on the fatuous notion that Christmas and its traditions are offensive to non-Christians. Funny these party-poopers never name who these offended persons are. I have Jewish friends as well as friends of other non-Christian religions or no religion at all. I’ve not heard a one of these object to a Christian celebration in a predominately Christian nation. Likewise I’m sure that if I lived in Boca Raton rather than Tampa I would not be offended by seeing menorahs displayed on Jewish holidays, even on city property. So, celebrant or not, believer or not, enjoy the 25th of this month, whether it’s five below or eighty above outside. I plan to. Even though it will surely be my 83rd consecutive non-white Christmas. READ MORE from Larry Thornberry: Reports of Woke’s Death Are Greatly Exaggerated Democrat Policies Are Crazy, but Crazy Still Sells (See NYC) RIP Mike Greenwell — a Good Ball Player and a Good Man