There’s a certain shimmer to December in Nevada County — or at least, there used to be. As someone who grew up running these streets like they were a second home, the holiday season wasn’t just a date on the calendar; it was a feeling. A hum. A glow that wrapped itself around the town like a warm scarf knitted with love by someone’s grandma. Christmas cheer wasn’t a marketing plan. It was the air we breathed.

When I was a kid, Cornish Christmas was the event. My school choir would gather on the steps of the old Union building on Mill Street, cold noses, warm mittens, little voices doing their best to harmonize over the sound of boots on pavement and the popping of authentic kettle corn. I remember the thrill of singing into a sea of smiling familiar faces — neighbors, teachers, friends of my parents – and hearing them sing right along with us. People who knew your name, knew your family, and sometimes even watched you grow up from stroller to stage. It wasn’t just an event; it was community incarnate.

Fast-forward to high school, and you’d find me behind the counter at Caroline’s Coffee on South Auburn, steaming milk and pumping chocolate syrup like my life depended on it. I must have made more hot chocolates during those winter nights than the river has water molecules. But my goodness, I loved it. The warmth, the chatter, the gentle chaos — it felt like being in the beating heart of something beautiful. The kind of magic that doesn’t require a wristband or a crowd control plan.

But here’s the truth, spoken gently with a hint of side-eye:

I haven’t attended Cornish or Victorian Christmas in years.

Not because I don’t miss it. Not because I don’t want my kids to experience what I did. But because Nevada County went from charming holiday destination to full-blown tourist attraction faster than you can say “meet me by the roasted chestnuts guy.”

Parking was always a little tricky, sure — but now? You’d better have a friend who lives within shouting distance of the event, or better yet, a friend who loves you enough to do drop-off and pick-up like your personal holiday chauffeur. And walking through the event? Honestly, it should qualify as an Olympic sport. If your child lets go of your hand, you’re more likely to find a stray nickel on the ground before you find them. They say Wednesday night is “locals night,” but let’s be real — it’s just as packed as the weekend crowd, only with the faint hope that you might see someone you know and get to wave at over the crowd.

It breaks my heart a bit that my kids — and so many others — won’t grow up with that small-town Christmas spirit that once defined these events. The kind of spirit you didn’t have to fight through a crowd to feel.

And look — I am genuinely happy for our local business owners. These events put real money in real pockets, and that matters. A lot. But I can’t help wondering… at what cost?

Was trading in our Andy Griffith-style values, our neighborly stillness, our tightly woven community fabric worth the seasonal revenue spike? Will it still feel worth it when we’re no longer the “it” destination and the locals — the backbone of this county — have quietly bowed out?

Nevada County used to be a sacred kind of place. During the holidays, the spirit wasn’t just in the decorations — it was something you could feel, almost hear humming in the lights strung over the buildings on Mill and Broad Street. But somewhere along the way, that warm buzz faded, replaced by a capitalistic glow that shines bright but doesn’t warm the bones the same way. Tourism brought dollars, yes — but it also took a large bite out of the authenticity that made us special in the first place.

And so here we are — caught between nostalgia and what’s to be considered the new normal.

Still hoping. Still remembering. Still wondering if there’s a way back to the magic we once knew here in Nevada County.

If you grew up here, or even if you’ve loved Nevada County long enough to remember the “before times,” share a favorite memory of Cornish or Victorian Christmas in the comments. Let’s keep the real spirit alive where it still thrives — in our stories, our laughter, and the threads of community that refuse to unravel.

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