Display of Joy
Behind Winter Garden’s twinkle-lit holiday wonderland is a team of city staff who’ve turned decorating into an act of devotion.
- Heather Anne Lee
- Fred Lopez
Joy doesn’t arrive in Winter Garden with a fanfare; it sneaks in like glitter on your shoes—suddenly everywhere, impossible to ignore. By the time Thanksgiving’s leftovers are gone, downtown is wrapped in bows, poinsettias bloom in tidy tiers, and oaks drip with twinkle lights. Ordinary city blocks are transformed into a glowing stage where families, friends, and 100,000 neighbors gather the first weekend of December. Joy here isn’t abstract—it’s tangible, threaded through garlands, tucked into wreaths, and rolling down the snow hill with kids who can’t believe they’re sledding in Florida.
It feels like magic, but the truth is that the fairy tale is powered not by hired decorators or expensive spectacle, but by city staff who have quietly become artists of joy.
Laura Coar, the city’s director of parks and recreation, laughs when she hears people assume Winter Garden hires outside companies for the display. “We’re a super lean group,” she says. “All the creativity, all the decorations—they come from us. We’re the elves.”
Her elves are Jackie Mathis, who manages recreation, and Rick Reynolds, who manages parks, plus a crew of supervisors, seasonal helpers, and staff who, until recently, never thought of themselves as decorators. “At first they were terrified,” Laura says. “They’re maintenance guys, not Martha Stewarts. But now they love it. They take photos, share ideas, and bring their families downtown just to show them, ‘Hey, I did that wreath.’”
It starts in June, when Jackie is booking stilt walkers, jugglers, and entertainment for December weekends. By Halloween night, Rick and his crew are pulling out storage bins—stuffed to the rafters, packed into offices, spilling into hallways. They sort through garlands, bows, and net lights, repairing what’s frayed and hauling what’s whole. Then they begin. Pole by pole (191 at last count), tree by tree (more than 160), corner by corner, downtown turns festive.
It is labor-intensive work. “The day of Light Up, we walk 22 miles easy,” Laura says. “We’re up before dawn, home after midnight, and back at it the next morning for the parade.” But here’s the paradox: while it is exhausting, it is also life-giving. Joy, it turns out, is built in the trenches.
“Honestly, I love the building part,” Jackie admits. “Working side by side with the parks guys, talking, creating—it’s fun. We don’t get that kind of time together the rest of the year.”
Rick nods. For him, the best part is standing downtown when the lights are finished. “Seeing people happy. Hearing them say how beautiful it is. Watching families take pictures—that’s it for me.”
Joy, in Winter Garden, isn’t bought or manufactured. It’s crafted with a certain stubborn tenderness. Crews fluff bows, reposition garlands, and water poinsettias daily, because joy, like a living thing, requires maintenance. Even the temporary workers feel it. “This is the most coveted assignment,” Laura says. “They’re not just carrying boxes. They’re decorating, and they’re proud. They bring their families to see it.”
Over the years, Light Up Winter Garden has grown from a few strands of lights on City Hall to an immersive six-week season that draws crowds from across the state. What hasn’t changed is the ethos. Unlike a theme park light show, Winter Garden’s holiday display is deliberately simple, almost reverent. “We’re a historic downtown,” Laura says. “It’s supposed to feel like a Christmas stroll, not a laser show.”
And it does. Couples hold hands beneath lit oaks. Families pose on the City Hall steps. The police department and fire trucks become part of the spectacle, too, with Santa Runs and parade escorts. It’s all-hands-on-deck, and nobody worries about who’s doing more. “We’re not siloed,” Laura says. “Everyone knows the big picture. Everyone knows they matter.”
That’s the secret. Joy doesn’t trickle down from spectacle; it bubbles up from belonging.
Ask Laura, Rick, and Jackie what joy means to them, and their answers tumble out without hesitation. “Seeing people smile,” Laura says. “Seeing kids’ faces,” Jackie adds. “That moment the lights switch on and the whole crowd gasps,” Rick offers.
And maybe that’s why this annual ritual matters so much. The world feels heavy these days. We scroll news that frays our souls, juggle jobs and caregiving, mourn losses big and small. Joy can feel fleeting, impractical, even indulgent. But here, under Winter Garden’s lights, joy is treated as essential infrastructure—like roads, like water. A city can live without flashing lasers. It cannot live without joy.
When the season ends, and the garlands come down, Rick says downtown feels empty. “Boring, even,” he chuckles. The staff feels it too. After so many weeks of building joy together, the silence is deafening. But then summer comes, and the cycle begins again—calls to book entertainers, lists of lights to replace, visions of poinsettia trees. The elves get back to work.
Winter Garden’s Holiday Wonderland by the Numbers
400k
Visitors each year
191
Decorated lamp posts
160+
Trees wrapped in lights
1,000s
of poinsettias arranged downtown
1
Snow hill in Florida (yes, really)
