Yuletide Ruminations

[Mokrie Dela]

A breif foreword:

 

 

This isn't a structured story, but more expressive prose. It's exposition is intentional. I wanted to put to paper some of my memories, and also push myself to start writing again. My New Years Resolution (well, one of them) is to release here a new - original - story. So, here's a one shot for you.

 

 

 

I don't remember it being cold, but I suppose it must have been; it was the middle of winter and the sun had set. In contrast, the church was warm and the air was musky, dense and heavy, and candles shimmered all around as we entered, golden glows filling our eyes. It was such a welcoming sight and sensation; warmth in temperature and light, Voices echoing from further within, jovial and relaxed. This was the house of God, though I cant say I'm really a believer. Religion tends to cause more harm than good, at times, but if ever one needed an advertisement or endorsement for region, Christmas is definitely it.

 

Holly and tinsel surround the pillars, wrapping the lifeless stone and hanging on the walls. A tree stood proudly – well, maybe not proudly, as that's a sin, supposedly, but grandly at least – at the front. Or was it at the back, by the font? I can't remember but there was a tree there, I'm sure.

 

We sauntered down the aisle and seated ourselves on the hard wooden pew, probably about halfway down. Soon, the service would start, the Holy Trinity filling up with the voice of a vicar, the chorus of a choir and us as we sang Christmas carols.

 

It wasn't Midnight Mass. It was probably five-, six- or seven-o'clock in the evening, but it was a Christmas service still. Christ was born into a manger, shepherds and kings attended, and man would live forever more, for the son of God had arrived on earth. Hark the Herald Angels sing. Away in a Manger. Silent Night...

 

The service would end and we'd leave, feeling fulfilled and happy... Or bored. I was a kid, and it wasn't my thing, really. Strange that now – what, fifteen years later? - I would come to miss it. The only thing that would have been missing was roasted chestnuts. We had those at home, cooked and popped on our fire place.

 

We'd walk round the corner to Nana's. The bungalow was as appealing as the church – More so; we knew there would be food. Finger food, but food nonetheless.

 

We'd sit down in the small living room, glass cabinets lining on the walls. Throughout the night, the room would probably play host to up to ten people somehow, and Jim would put on the Christmas tapes. Yes, cassette tapes of Christmas carols and the commercial songs.

 

As a child I was more concerned with eating more than I was with the conversation. Small cheese sticks, crackers and crisps, sausage rolls, Pork pies and Mince pies. I suppose I was asked how School was – what else do you talk to a child about? The adults would sip at Port and Brandy and white wine but we, the children, would be given soft drinks or shandy.

 

Both Nana and Jim have been gone for over ten years and while this is so long ago, I remember the feeling of that night, despite hardly thinking of it since.

 

As the evening progressed, and more and more of my aunts – of which I had over half a dozen – and uncles (well, uncles by marriage, not blood – they never fully counted, as strange as that is) would turn up dressed in their sparkly tops, dangling earrings and lipstick – the women, that is. Presents would be exchanged, mostly with us children, of which there was two; myself and my sisters. It was Christmas Eve, but we would be allowed to open one. And fittingly, I only really remember one clearly enough to mention. I tore open the paper like any other child; enthusiasm in my eyes, that buzz of anticipation flowing through my veins and across my skin like a low-voltage electrical current. Inside was an open-front cardboard box – the kind toys are sold in. See-through plastic tightly covered the toy.

 

And what was the toy? It was a police helicopter. It resembled a Bell 222, or Airwolf, except it was white with blue trim, blue rotors and blacked out windows. I think it was wind up or something mechanical that made the rotors spin. Perhaps it had sirens too, but I'm not sure. That particular sound might have emanated from my my larynx. As and normal boy would do, I flew it around in my hands. I'm reminded of a Lego Rescue Helicopter I once had, and thus my two favourite toys – both Lego; a yellow exploratory submarine (actually two of them, that I naturally had to build an entire military complex to house, complete with secret lifts, like in Thunderbirds) and an ice-planet spaceship-cum-snowmobile, in blue white and orange. Such delights fall flat on adults, I think, and I genuinely mourn those days. I wish I kept them in good condition.

 

I 'flew' that helicopter home, holding it in the sky with one hand, my other holding my mother's. I didn't care that my hands were cold – or maybe I wore gloves.

 

We'd get home and it'd be late – eleven o'clock or later. Christmas Day would start in an hour or so, and thus Father Christmas would be making his rounds. If we were awake, my parents said, he wouldn't visit.

 

So we'd go to bed and sleep or at least pretend to. If I was still awake, I'd hear my door open, and I'd steel myself against the excitement.

 

Father Christmas is here! He would set the sack that we called a stocking (it was simply a decorated sack the same size of a postage sack, or one used in sack races) at the bottom of my bed. I'd look after the door closed and see the uneven bulking in the semi-dark. If I was already asleep, I would wake up in the early hours of the morning.

 

And then, I had to. How could I not? One Present – just one. It was probably four, five or six in the morning and I'd switch on my bedside lamp and rummage through the sack of gifts.

 

Some things we got every year. The large, flat square would be a calendar; the small rectangle would be a diary – that I never used; the cylinder would be a tube of Smarties or Fruit Pastilles – the latter still tastes of Christmas to me now, even in July. One year I received a few curious small packages that rattled when shaken. I had grown to know that sound by ear: Lego. And indeed, I received a new range of models called Slizers (and subsequent years received the Bionicles and Roboriders that they were predecessors to).

 

Early one Christmas morning, while everyone else slept – well, maybe my sister and millions of children were doing what I as – I opened one present. I pulled out an Action Man Torch and I think I might have gotten an Action Man with it – my first: a Ninja. The torch had changeable lenses which created different coloured light. I'd fiddle with the toy briefly then go back to sleep.

 

Christmas day would come and I'd be excited of course. I remember opening one present to find a multi-storey rescue garage. Containers that folded out to be mobile stations – a police, medic and, for some reason, a drilling station – stacked on one side, serviced by a lift that either took them to the roof, where a heavy-lift type helicopter could carry them, or down to the ground to be loaded on the back of a truck. A ramp on the side led to a platform that, when folded down became a car park and revealed a miniature hospital and police station,

 

But up there with those toy memories was the Action Man Moonraker buggy. I managed to put the aforementioned torch on the front and by combining the two, my buggy had a spotlight! The Action Man himself wore a full-on space suit, and I would drive the vehicle under our dining room table as my mother cooked lunch. The shade under there, combined with the differing hues of the torch and our red carpet made it feel as though my Action Man was exploring an alien planet. Mars.

 

All this was what Christmas brought. At school we'd have the Christmas play – I was a doorbell, one year. Why a doorbell was needed in a nativity, I don't know, but I sat there with the xylophone, waiting for my cue. I might have been a King or Wise man another year, carrying a box wrapped in shiny gold paper to represent Gold. We'd make decorations, and have our yearly Christmas day – full of games and Christmas Turkey lunch – which sparked my love affair with stuffing!

 

For a child, it's all about the presents, I think. We're taught about the origins and meaning – which is crucial, especially now – but we only cared about the toys we got. And it break my heart to know I did not treat them well. Those favourite toys of mine, now sit broken in pieces in the Lego box, some parts forever missing, instructions gone. They can never be rebuilt – and I have tried. I wish I could just have them all on a shelf on display. A connection to my childhood, which I miss like many others.

 

Sure, there's the religious connotations that we overlook each year; it's not just Christians that celebrate Christmas now, it's become a mass hysteria for shopping. But past that, and I'd argue in many ways more important than celebrating the birth of a character which may or may not have existed, is the importance so many put on family.

 

Our elders pass. That's inevitable, and until it happens, we don't think of it. If you still have your grandparents and you see them over these few days, please hug them. Offer them the last of the wine instead of downing it yourself. Offer them the last stuffing ball, or that succulent pig-in-blanket. Appreciate them, even if you're a macho tough-guy. Tell them you love them. Do the same with your parents; for they have given you everything. The United States have one of the greatest concepts for a holiday; thanksgiving. We do not, so use this as a chance to show your thanks. For when they are gone, they are gone.

 

I say this because I mourn my family. We're dysfunctional, argumentative and selfish. The gentile characters that always seemed graceful – grandparents – are gone. Last year we managed to all be together, just once. And even then, it felt almost like a lie. Three hundred and sixty four days of the year we argue and shout and disrespect. Then for one day we pretend that we like each-other. Or at least tolerate each-other. It's about receiving, not giving.

 

Hey, it's not Christmas without a touch of darkness. Without the sad undertones, it's too plasticy. Our favourite Christmas songs are all kind of sad. “It'll be lonely this Christmas without you;” “I'll have a blue Christmas without you to hold.” Fairytale of New York, the meaning being “Christmas Time (Don't let the Bells End). The incessant 'charity' campaign of the Band Aid nonsense.

 

But that's Christmas. A contradiction, a lie, money. But if you can, look beyond that. See your loved ones and show them you cherish them. Laugh with them. Play games (something else I miss). Enjoy the day.

 

And remember, happiness isn't just for Christmas. Don't shun the darkness, but use it to make the good things shine brighter.

 

In the meantime, Have a Great Christmas, and if you don't celebrate it, have a great normal day and new year.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited December 24, 2014 by Mokrie Dela