Saturday, December 18

 Yesterday, when I was listing some of the ways in which we have spent Christmas Day in the past, I neglected to mention perhaps the most interesting of all - the Christmas we spent in Balatan in the Phillipines.  Nera's family is one of the most respected in the area.  Members of the family have fishing boats and employ many locals, one uncle was the mayor, Nera's mother runs a medical centre and her father owns a number of small shops and houses which he rents out, so the famliy is highly-respected. and admired.

Marilyn and I were staying in a house that Jamie and Nera own a couple of doors away from her parents and were looking forward to enjoying Christmas Day with the family.  Preparations started on Christmas Eve when a whole cooked pig was delivered; this would be the centrepiece of the meal which would be eaten at midnight.  Nera's mother and sisters spent hours preparing various traditional dishes while those not involved sang Karaoke using a machine which I had been coerced into hiring.  It's not usual to close doors and windows in this part of the world, so all the locals who heard the music gathered outside in the street and joined in with the singing.

As midnight struck, we were encouraged to start on the food.  The pig had been beheaded and the head was placed proudly in the centre of the table.  There was a thin beef soup and rice dishes, of course, and various leafy vegetables which I didn't recognise, as well as lots of sweet bread and fruit.  Marilyn and I had no appetite to eat at midnight but we needn't have worried about the food being wasted.  At about 8 in the morning, all the locals who had been hanging about outside all night, joining in our singing and listening to our conversations, were invited in to have their share of the food.  This is the tradition in rural areas of the Philippines; those who have food, are happy to share it with those who don't.

On Christmas Day, all the shops are open for their annual sale.  We visited the SM Mall in Naga and there was hardly room to move in the shops.  

This was not at all like the Christmases we experience in Australia but, in some ways, it was one of the best Christmases we have ever enjoyed., and certainly one of the most memorable.

Friday, December 17th

 I've been trying to pinpoint the time when our Christmas celebrations started to become the low-key event that it is now.  It's been a gradual process affected by a number of issues: the children, and even the grandchildren, have grown up, our wives have become tired of slaving over ridiculous Christmas dinners, more suited to Edwardian England, and we are no longer intrigued by surprise gifts.

For us, 1987 seemed to be a turning point.  In that year, we moved to Townsville, Jamie went to college in Wagga and Dad died.  Although we all met for Christmas in Gwynneville that year, as we had done many time before, the joy seemed to have disappeared.  

Looking back on memorable Christmases since that time, none of them have featured a huge turkey or a man in a red suit.  One time, Marilyn and I sat under a tree in Sorell in Tasmania, with a newspaper-wrapped pile of prawns and a bottle of NZ Sauvignon Blanc, other times we joined the raucous crowd at the Wrest Point Casino.  In Townsville, we had Christmas dinner with various friends, often around a pool and, back in Tasmania, we often enjoy informal events with just the handful of family who happen to live in the same town: Jamie and Nera, or Madeleine and Josh

This year, we will be away from home.  We might find a restaurant in Richmond with room for the two of us on Christmas Day or we might fall back on our usual favourite: a heap of prawns, some nice wine and something Christmassy on the TV.  I have a copy of Love Actually which has, apparently, become the Christmas favourite in the UK for years. 

Perhaps if our great-grandchildren, Macie, Juniper and Silas lived around the corner, we'd still be haunting the toy shops, sussing out the variety of Santa Clauses on offer, and sweating over a hot stove on Christmas morning.  But, they don't so we will just have to enjoy our low-key, muted Christmas celebration again this year wondering about what might have been.  There's a lot to be said about our mobile society but the days when several generations of a family lived in the same village brought benefits as well.  Instead of carefully choosing gifts, wrapping them, putting them under the Christmas tree and watching them being torn open by bleary-eyed, children in their pyjamas, we transfer some 'funds' by EFT and imagine what might be taking place on Christmas morning, hundreds of kilometres away.  The best we can look forward to is getting a thank-you in due course.  

Modern times!

 

Thursday, December 16th

 

Christmases took on a whole new flavour in the early-1970s when there were young children once again in the picture.  All of a sudden we were involving ourselves in the manic celebration which Christmas had become, checking out the latest must-have toys, and putting larger items on lay-by, hoping they would be paid off by Christmas day.  Visiting Santa Claus in the local department store became a tradition.  No ‘Working with Children’ card in those days – just a vaguely jolly bloke in a red suit who had to suffer hours of being nice to unpredictable children.  It was not unusual for our children to see 4 or 5 different Santas in one year; how did they reconcile this anomaly in their minds?

 

It became difficult when Marilyn and I decided that we would move to Tasmania when Jamie was turning 6.  His grandparents were devastated that he was being taken to what they saw as the other side of the world so we made a solemn promise that we would make sure he would always be in Wollongong at Christmas.

 

We had, of course, underestimated how expensive it would be to keep that promise.  Air fares alone ran into many hundreds of dollars and it was not unusual for us to book only one-way fares, leaving us with some cash in hand for spending money when we arrived.  We depended on booking the return fares in January and putting the cost on the credit card trusting that they could be paid off in due course. 

 

Christmas should be the happiest time of the year but the shine is taken off a bit when you are forced to count the cost.

Tuesday, December 14th

 

We’re really into the Christmas countdown now although it has nothing like the excitement of Christmases Past.  Nowadays, we don’t get exercised about buying presents; we’re more likely to spend any money we have spare on a lunch out together or a holiday.  We don’t plan a huge Christmas lunch with turkey, ham, 6 vegetables, trifle, pudding, crackers and funny hats.  No, our most regular Christmas dinner now is based around a kilo or two of the biggest prawns we can find.

 

Our Christmas tree is about 90cm tall. It has tiny flashing fibre-optic lights built into some of the branches and sits happily on a sideboard year after year, spreading Christmas cheer to all and sundry.  It’s been years since we’ve had a ‘real’ tree, shedding needles everywhere, and discarded like thousands of its mates on the 6^th of January.

 

We don’t get up any earlier on Christmas morning because there are no children in the house desperate to find out what ‘Santa’ has brought them.  We do tend to dress a little more tidily in honour of the significance of the day but it’s no big deal.

 

I don’t remember what Christmas was like when I was very young.  In Scotland, of course, it was winter so there would have been snow but what we now think of as a ‘traditional’ Christmas is based on two books: one English and one American, so it’s unlikely they had much of an influence in Scotland.  ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’, the poem by Clement Clarke Moore, lays out the procedure for Christmas in fine detail and A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens fills in the gaps. 

 

I do remember two books which I probably received as Christmas presents and brought with me to Australia: one was Rubalong Tales by Enid Blyton, and the other was an illustrated version of Oliver Twist, adapted for ‘Young Readers’.  The Enid Blyton has faded from my memory but the Dickens clearly made a strong impression on me.  I can remember clearly the way the characters were dressed, how angry I was at the behaviour of Mr Bumble and my mixed emotions when I read about the Artful Dodger.  Dickens' description of Fagin coloured my feelings about Jewish people for years. 

 

                                                                        …. To be continued

Sunday, December 12th

 

It’s Sunday, December 12^th. I’ve been up since 7 and it’s now 8.50am.  I’ve watched the ABC news on TV, browsed the online Guardian and decided that I don’t need to know anything more about the state of the world.  We have Archie with us at the moment; he’s been through to say Good Morning but has again retired to the bedroom where Marilyn is catching up on her reading.  I’m in the habit of taking her 1.5 cups of coffee in the morning which keeps her going until she feels the need for breakfast, and allows me an hour or so to get myself into gear for what the day might bring.

 

In fact, we have no plans for the day.  The sun is shining so we might get out, perhaps taking Archie for a walk somewhere.  Or maybe not.  Checking our diaries we have nothing much planned for the next few days.  We’ll get booster Covid shots on the 17^th and are meeting friends for lunch on the same day; our Probus Christmas Party is on the 21^st and we are heading for Hobart on the 23^rd.  We decided to go away for Christmas this year for a change. Jamie and Nera are always busy with their friends at this time of the year and we don’t like to gate-crash their parties so have booked accommodation at Richmond so we can ‘do our own thing’.  We’re looking forward to seeing the new West Side Story at the State Theatre on Boxing Day.

 

If things had been different, we might have flown to Brisbane to see Madeleine and the  great-grandchildren, or to Wollongong, or we might even have lashed out and flown to Christchurch or Tokyo.  Instead, we’re limited to what our small state can offer but that’s not too much of a problem.  We’re at the stage where we enjoy our own company and don’t need other people around.  It’s nice, of course, to have others to talk to but sometimes it’s just too much bother.

 

I sent out our usual Christmas letter yesterday and it was great to receive an immediate response from our friend Lynne in England.  She said she couldn’t sleep, decided to check her emails and was delighted to receive our missive.  I wonder how many more people will take the trouble to respond.  I hadn’t realised how much I look forward to getting feedback but I’m now posting stuff on the internet almost every day and, so far as feedback is concerned, I might as well be putting my words straight into the bin.

 

My last post on The Joy of Retirement was read by 4 people, the one before by 7 and the one before that by 13.  Who are these people?  Are they real people or are they Chinese bots trawling the internet looking for secret information?  Does the Australian government routinely check what their citizens are writing in case a plot is being hatched secretly?  If they are real people, why don’t they identify themselves?  Is checking my blog regarded as a secret vice, best kept under the covers in case loved ones might get the wrong idea?

 

I kid myself that I write the blog, and things like the Christmas letter, for my own pleasure but I routinely check for any feedback.  Sadly, feedback is rare. We seem to have become a society whose members are programmed to consume media that is presented to us, but not expected to respond.  What was once regarded as good manners, to answer letters received, is now no longer seen as necessary.  We have become the ultimate consumers.

I Am Not Yet Dead

 

At my Poetry Group this week I read a poem by Louis McNeice.  It is called  I Am Not Yet Born and was written in the last few months of World War 2.

I am not yet born, O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat, or the rat, or the stoat, or the clubfooted ghoul
come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope
me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood baths roll me ….

 

It’s powerful stuff and I was astounded to hear that our tutor, a Canadian woman who now lives in Tasmania, has written an ‘answer’ to it.  It’s published in her new book The Longest Conversation.

 

I am not yet dead, so hear me

Let not my senses dull to disappearance

O let me hear, O let me see

Until the darkness comes.

 

I am not yet dead, don’t ignore me

let not the fact that I’m not rich diminish me;

I worked for my money half a century

paid my debts to Caesar,

worked even longer for no money

to pay all other debts,  and still do;

I am not yet dead, and I am not useless …

 

I bought her book last week and am reading it one poem a day, but hadn’t reached page 77 where the poem is printed.  It’s extraordinary that, of all the poems I might choose, I settled on one with such a connection to our tutor.

The Christmas Fairy

 

Today was the last of our Writing sessions for the year and we all presented our very short stories on the theme of Christmas.  As usual, some were better than others; I wrote on the topic of The Christmas Cat, drawing for inspiration on my Aunt Mabel’s evil Chino.  One of the other participants, who has some connection with Scotland, amused us all with a poem she had found:  The Christmas Fairy.

 

I am a little fairy
On tap o' the Christmas Tree
It's no' a job I fancy
Well how would you like tae be me?

Aw tarted up wi' tinsel
It's enough to mak ye boak
An’ a couple o' jaggy branches
Rammed up the back o' yer frock.

 

An' these wee lights a'roon me
I canna get ma sleep
An' there's the yearly visit
Fae Santa ......Big fat creep!

On Christmas Day A'm stuck up here
While you're a' wirin' in
An' naebody says, "Hey you up there
Could ye go a slug o' gin?

 

It's nae joke bein' a fairy
The job's beyond belief
You've got to go roon' the wean's beds
And lift their rotten teeth

But o' a' the joabs a fairy gets
An' I've mentioned only some
The very worst is sitting up a tree
Wi' pine needles up yer bum 

 

When a' the fairies meet again
By the light o' the silvery moon
Ye can tell the Christmas fairies
They're the wans that canna sit doon

The Christmas tree's a bonny sight
As the firelight softly flickers
But think o' me A'm stuck up here
Wi' needles in ma knickers.

 

So soon as Christmas time's right by
An' A stop bein' sae full o' cheer
A'll get awa back tae Fairyland
An' A'll see yous a' next year.