A Memory Framed for Christmas
By Tricia Knight
Trying to write a story for this Christmas magazine, I floundered. Then I recalled fragments of magic, that collectively, paint the picture of my Christmas as it unfolds here in Castletown. Memories flooded back, reminding me folk shared the same worries about affording food and presents for Christmas. Gifts are bigger, food, more exotic and holidays longer, but the urge to demonstrate love remains much the same, as when I was a child in the fifties. I’ll show you with a sketch from my Christmas, 2010.
As October’s darker nights closed in, my stock-pot, filled with plums and other ingredients. produced plum chutney, cooling ready to bottle for Christmas. Later, Mum’s greasy finger-prints, forever ingrained on the Christmas Cake’s, Recipe page, of her Good Housekeeping, cookery book, resurrected images of her mixing everything together, while we children peered over the table-top, waiting to lick the spoons and bowl. My cake baked, filling the kitchen with the same pungent aroma of mixed spices as when she’d made hers. Mum’s made everything for Christmas, but with only Jim and my-self to cater for, I didn’t have to. My purchase of cards, wrapping, decorations and presents was spread over two months and I loved every minute. I ordered food on-line, having it delivered after work. No frozen fingers, or wet feet, dragging bags of provisions home for me. Presents were wrapped and cards posted on November 30th. On December 1st, our Advent Calendar began its reveal. I preferred the nativity type celebrating Jesus’s birth, the original reason for Christmas, but religion died for many when, like teenagers and Father Christmas, they couldn’t see him, so lost faith!
Thurso’s church square, trees, bore electric-blue lights; lamp-posts flashed, silver/blue and star-decorations cascaded towards the bridge. Underlit arches, powered by blue lighting, reflected in the water. Castletown’s’ main street, lined with Assorted circular, multi-coloured, Christmas lights included a shining, yellow star, marking where I lived. That, always made me smile.
The garden centre’s light was a Christmas tree, the perfect symbol for Chris’s trees.
Oh! the excitement Jim and I felt, year as Spruces and Pines were unloaded, and displayed in early December. We’d watch, eager to see who’d buy. Initially, Company reps and wealthy folk purchased and stowed the biggest trees on top of 4 x 4’s. Going school, children turned their heads and pointed, while mums dragged them away, afraid of being late.
By the 5th, various festive, glittery-coloured cards began to tumble through our letterbox and the school-children’s nativity play was rehearsed. Mothers’ eyes welled up, while fathers swelled with pride, watching their little ones on stage. Mind, it didn’t always go as planned. Linda, a neighbour’s sister, recounted once, seeing a little king, trip on his cloak as he climbed on stage, causing his crown to loosen. Throughout the performance, it slid and teetered on the brink of falling off. Each slip caused a greater sigh and push from the king to reinstate it. On another occasion, Mary, while saying her piece, became semi-obscured by a darling angel, duelling with a shepherd, who’d accidentally knocked the star off the angel’s wand. Their antics of course, only added to the audience’s amusement.
By December 14th, our artificial tree, bells, tinsel and Mum’s precious ancient, red glass-baubles, had been instated. I enjoyed dressing the tree, even though the fairy perched precariously askew, like she’d had one too many. Cards everywhere, on strings, and amid the holly wreath covering the mantle-piece. It was the peak period for family purchases across at Chris’s, and nearly always, the same routine.
Dads or grandad, strode to the biggest tree, then wife appeared, completely ignoring him. She’d ask store-owner to show her several sizes, as the children, a riot of excitement, ran from one tree to another. Mum, settled on something alien to her husband’s pick, and home it went!
In 2010, between friends dropping in for celebratory drinks, and swapping presents, hugs and laughter, we again observed the tree sales. For the umpteenth time, two primary aged children I’d nicknamed, Pinkie (worn from head to toe) and Smiler, (for obvious reasons) pointed and gazed with longing from trees to their mum. Each time she refused and they all walked away, despondent.
On the 19th, three pines remained. Young couples bought the big trees and I think Chris wanted to shut early because he took the little one in and closed the door at 3 o’clock. At 3.30 daylight faded, the snow began and Smiler ran by. Pinkie was in tow with Mother following up the rear. They stopped dead in their tracks, as they realised the trees had gone, then Pinkie burst into tears and Smiler was anything but. Hearing the rumpus, Chris poked his head out, shook it sadly then disappeared behind the door. Almost as quick, he reappeared and called the lady inside. While the children waited, they stamped about and it snowed heavier. Both started to laugh, opening their mouths to catch the flakes.
Their mother emerged, holding the little four-footer, no-one else had wanted. Expressions of utter delight covered their faces as they registered the tree in her hands. Jim and I, rooted, watched Pinkie, hat bobbing, following a grinning Smiler, with their relieved mother, all holding their tree, as they marched passed, triumphantly home through the snow. It compared to a scene from a movie. But to me, the 25th proved even better.
The first white Christmas in years, I’d driven off to work in the dark, wondering, why me? Almost immediately, I received my answer, and pulled up. Framed inside a house window, proudly displayed between draped curtains, was the little four-foot tree, that nearly didn’t sell. It stood decorated and glittering above the window-sill. Alongside, Smiler and Pinkie’s animated, radiant expressions, highlighted by the trees sparkling golden lights. I felt privileged to see their Christmas memories being made and what’s more, I think that was probably the best loved tree of all.
