Fruitcake relocation program rides again

No, I did not receive a fruitcake for Christmas nor did I ask for one.

Santa knew better than to pack one on his sleigh. My family did not dare to leave one under the tree. 

I love fruit. I have been known to eat cake. But I keep my distance from the most cringe-worthy of holiday food groups.

Our home is a fruitcake-free zone. I am always glad when someone doesn’t try to pawn one off on me. Or a little old lady from church doesn’t drop off a loaf in a box with a bow.

After National Fruitcake Month is celebrated in December, it is quickly followed by National Fruitcake Toss Day on the first Saturday in January.

Put me in, coach.

This year, I got off to an early start on my annual Fruitcake Relocation Program, leaving a trail of sweet crumbs scattered across the miles.

The day after Christmas, I purchased a Claxton Old-Fashioned Fruitcake for $3.99 at Food Depot  (I had to buy it since nobody gave me one, but that’s OK.) 

It weighed one pound, contained 43 grams of sugar and had a longer shelf life than Mick Jagger.

Along the way to spend our final week of 2024 in Florida, my wife and I stopped at the corner of First and Walnut streets in Macon. With the accuracy of a quarterback, I heaved a slice of fruitcake over the chain-link fence surrounding the Hilton.

This was advanced planning, since the old hotel was scheduled to be imploded six days later on New Year’s Day. I envisioned tons of concrete crashing on top of it. Of course, I’m convinced fruitcake can survive anything. I fancied it being discovered later, a little messy but well-preserved under a pile of rubble.

Later that morning, our mercy mission trip took us to Claxton,  which thumps its chest as the “Fruitcake Capital of the World.”  The company’s headquarters appeared to be closed for the holidays, so we decided against putting a slice in a “return to sender” envelope and sliding it under the door. We gently tossed it into some shrubbery on the side of the building. I drove the getaway car, praying that the security cameras didn’t catch us in the act of regifting fruitcake.

That happens, you know.

“There is only one fruitcake in the world,’’ talk show host Johnny Carson once said, “And people keep sending it to each other.’’

Even the astronauts have been guilty of not touching it on their plates. Pineapple fruitcake was among the cargo taken aboard the Apollo 11 moon mission in July 1969. It was never consumed, returned to Earth intact and is now on display at the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. 

I became a great uncle again on Dec. 12.  We headed to my sister’s house on Skidaway Island to meet the little fellow for the first time. 

Welcome to the world, Jet Hall. And here is your, er … belated baby shower gift.

Jet is not on solid foods yet, but I’m sure there are enough preservatives in the 1.5-ounce slice of fruitcake we presented him.

 When folks ask me what is in a fruitcake, I usually have to consult the label. You certainly won’t find the popular adult beverages – whiskey, brandy and rum – in the store-bought fruitcakes.  But you will get your fill of raisins, orange and lemon peels, papaya, cherries, pineapple, pecans, almonds, walnuts, assorted flour and sugars, oils, sorbates, acids, vitamins, flavorings, colorings and probably a few spare parts from the garage.

Later, after feeling guilty about all this random fruitcake dumping, we pulled over on  Interstate 95 between Savannah and Brunswick to confess and seek forgiveness at the “smallest church in America.’’

We had been  there once before, back in the summer of 2006. The tiny 10-by-15 chapel – not much larger than your grandma’s kitchen – rests in the shade of water oaks about a mile off the interstate along Ga. 17 near South Newport, one of the many coastal communities scattered along the marshes and fishing villages.

The late Agnes Harper, a widow who ran a rural grocery store, opened the nondenominational church 75 years ago in 1949.  She acquired the land from her son-in-law and deeded the property to Jesus. There are 13 seats inside, representing Christ and his disciples.

Services are no longer held there but it is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week … just like Wal-Mart.

Fruitcake seemed inappropriate for communion, so we didn’t stay long. In the spirit of spiritual diplomacy, I placed a slice on the property closer to the highway – no deposit, no return – and left an offering in the donation box by the chapel door.

A book was published on New Year’s Day in 1992 called “50 Ways to Recycle Fruitcake.’’ It suggests using it for everything from paper weights to doorstops to “save our planet.’’ I was tempted to round up a few spare pieces to patch some of the potholes in my neighborhood.

At New Smyrna Beach, Florida we visited with our friends, Mike and Marilynn  Pantera. We cut several slices for them after they agreed to take one to the Last Resort, an iconic dive bar near their home in Port Orange. It was a place Aileen Wuornos – one of the most notorious serial killers in U.S. history – frequented and where she was arrested while drinking a beer in 1991. 

Wuornos was convicted of seven murders and executed in 2002 after spending more than a decade on death row. I’m not sure if she requested fruitcake for her last meal.

She still gets mail addressed to her at the bar. Charlize Theron won an Academy Award for Best Actress for her portrayal of Wuornos in the 2003 movie “Monster.’’

The Panteras devised their own regifting plans for some of the fruitcake. They made plans to send back a piece with some friends from Indiana. Marilynn was going to mail a slice to her sister in Ely, Minnesota. Ely is almost as far north as you can go without crossing into Canada, which hopefully does not impose high tariffs on any stray Georgia fruitcake.

In honor of our gearhead friends back in Middle Georgia, we deposited a piece in the parking lot at Daytona International Speedway. I’m sure none of our auto racing fans care too much for fruitcake, but maybe we could petition to bring back the Firecracker 400 and call it the Fruitcake 400.

The Indian River got a little sweeter after I chunked a small piece into water from the dock at J.B.’s Fish Camp. It did not float. I hope it wasn’t too toxic.  But, to use an old mob  phrase, it is now “sleeping with the fishes.” I’m pretty sure it will never be the “catch of the day” on the menu.

A sign says the restaurant is not responsible for anything left behind – credit cards, wallets, purses, cell phones, glasses, hats, jackets, keys, dogs, diaper bags, children, grandparents and spouses. There is no mention of fruitcake.

While getting ready for New Year’s Eve, I read where everything from balls to buzzards, peaches, lobsters, guitars, doughnuts and cigars are traditionally dropped at New Year’s Eve celebrations across the country. I took some pregame snaps by “dropping” some fruitcake from an eighth-floor balcony at the Smyrna Beach Club.

It was a satisfying ending to a well-traveled fruitcake. 

As always, I was happy to do my part. 

And no newspaper columnists were harmed in the making of this little adventure.