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Everyone has their particular memory of childhood Christmas. It is one of those universally observed seasons that is inescapable. Even if you belong to a community that ignores or abhors it, the very act of spurning the commemoration leaves an impression of some sort.
The month of December is probably the most complicated one. Not only does it herald the impending end of the year, but it seems like the measuring stick for all of its endeavours.
Did you do the things you wanted to? Have you given yourself a fighting chance to have a merry old time?
Consciously or not, we evaluate ourselves. And not often is it a satisfactory rating.
I am fascinated by the connections people make between the Christmas they want and the Christmas they get. A conversation a few days ago resurrected those thoughts.
Nostalgia, I’ve concluded, is a powerful element of the emotions surrounding the season. There is something about the way we recall events that drapes sentiment around the simplest of things. We burnish even the most mundane.
My friend was saying that the smell of paint and the aroma of homemade bread takes him back. But he was perhaps unusual in the way he tore away the cosy fabric of reminiscence. He recalled that there were chores: painting floors, the front and back steps, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.
He’s not the only one who has invoked the sheer drudgery of varnishing chairs, hanging new curtains, scrubbing and dusting everything in sight. Yet for him, these were simply things that had to be done, and in the moment, they carried no special resonance.
He looked back frankly, noting that at the time, they carried no great expectations. He located this nonchalance within the parameters of a child’s view. But he had to admit that his ideas of Christmas were formed and informed by what he calls the “Hollywood” influence.
The images we devoured were those of fantastical fairies, princesses and princes, castles, hearty, booming Santa Clauses, reindeer and sleigh bells.
We knew Frosty and Rudolph, starring on pure white snow, towering Christmas trees bedecked with lights and baubles. Christmas mornings with families gathered to unwrap presents stacked under said trees.
The ideal Christmas was a white one, far removed from our tropical landscape.
In those times, no Christmas movie, or book, or postcard depicted the frenzied preparations. How then could we reconcile the picturesque scenes with our homely tasks?
I’d say that the two-dimensional images were translated into the local vernacular by the way the preparations fully engage our senses: what we see, what we smell, what we touch, what we hear, what we taste.
Inside these sensations lies the heart of that nostalgia for times past. Even as the smell of drying paint, varnish and furniture polish mingled with the aroma of the cakes and bread in the oven; and they all wafted together with baking ham, chicken and turkey (the goose from Dickens’ Christmas Carol never made it to local tables), we were surrounded by things that titillated all our senses.
Lights, garlands, new curtains, ornamented trees, carols, parang (soca and regular), the pastelle posse processing like professionals; these combined to flavour the season with a particularly home-made essence.
Photo: Gerard Paul Photography
Most people of that generation will recall that these were not times of plenty. The fare was mostly home-made: the sorrel, the ponche de crème, and ginger beer were painstakingly brewed.
The imported things fell within the range of apples and grapes, Peardrax and butter cookies, netted bags of assorted nuts in their shells.
Toys too, predominantly simple gadgets and trinkets, were the highlight of the day itself. (For me, books were the ultimate treasure.) But the range really did not exceed what pockets could reasonably afford.
I know there are those who got bicycles and stuff like that, but we would never have imagined anything beyond dolls, or toy cars and balls and the like.
It didn’t really matter because you were just grateful to get something wrapped up in colourful paper with your name on it. That was what made you feel special.
Of course, the gathering of friends and family—even the ones you were not fondly inclined towards—added to the infusions of warmth.
(via iStock)
Perhaps it was the way a homestead could be transformed from the humdrum site of daily routine into a space thrumming with activity and merriment that is the siren call to our memories.
Perhaps it is that blurring of the details—the way the mind can supplant constructed images on reality—that makes us yearn for those days.
It is easy to imagine that there is a link to the lively imaginations of childhood that allowed us the beautiful luxury of entering magical realms, half-designed by “Hollywood”, half-enacted by the adults who created transient moments of perfection, and the secret desires to recapture something of that past.
(via Destination TNT)
These memories of childhood shape our expectations of the season.
I am also very aware of how many do not have pleasant memories of those days, for whom those times are painful to resurrect. It is why I believe December is such a complicated month.
For all of those who approach it with glee and excitement, there is probably an equal number for whom it brings dread.
I no longer harbour any expectations—for me, it’s simply a time of peace, fellowship, food and good cheer.
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Vaneisa Baksh is a columnist with the Trinidad Express, an editor and a cricket historian. She is the author of a biography of Sir Frank Worrell.
