It is Christmas morning as I finish writing this, but by the
time you read it Christmas Day will have been and gone. I hope you all had a
wonderful time with your loved ones. Here in Australia it is a warm day and the
forecast is mid 20s, just right, not too hot and certainly not cold.
I don’t know if it’s something to do with growing older but
one can’t help reminiscing about Christmas’s past at this time of the year.
There will always be some that stand out of course.
Because I was the youngest in a large family
most of my Christmas’s as a child were memorable, but one stands out from the
rest. I can still relive that feeling of wonder when I awoke while it was still
dark. In London that was more than likely about 6am but I guess I imagined it
was still the middle of the night. The wonder was that once again Santa had
been and I had slept right through his visit. I was probably about six. My
sisters were still snoring alongside me. I peeped over and there by my bed was
a cot for my new doll. There were various other small gifts but the cot was the
stand out. This wasn’t one of those fancy ones the kids of today would receive,
but a simple wooden frame with fabric stretched across it (a miniature bed really).
I found out much later that one of my brothers made it.
Most of my toys were
made by a brother or sister or my mother. The doll lying on it was one of those
old fashioned types with a rag body and a china head. I also realized a long
time later that my mother made these. The head would be bought and she would
fashion the body and stuff it. The heads of these dolls had hair painted on
them. Some girls would be lucky enough to receive a doll with fake hair, and my
dream was to own a doll with long hair that I could actually comb. The nearest
I got to this was a rag doll about 12 inches high that my two older sisters
made. She had hair of cotton and the beauty of this was that it could be
trimmed, or even cut really short, then when the mood took me I would simply
wind yellow cotton (always yellow as my doll had to be golden haired) around a
book until I had the right thickness then these strands could be sewn onto her
head. I had that old rag doll for quite some time, and her hairstyle changed
numerous times.
But back to Boxing Day. As much as I loved Christmas Day
itself there was always something special about the day after. This was
leftovers day. As I grew and all my older siblings married and left home to go
their separate ways it was tradition that they come to eat the leftovers on
Boxing Day. After a large lunch the men would doze while the womenfolk cleared
away the mess left behind. Come evening there would be another party. We would
gather around Aunt Flo’s old piano while she banged out a tune. Each member of
my family had a song they called their own. My favorite was and will always be
my mother’s. It went: "You wish me to forget you, you say 'tis best
we part; When all my life I've loved you in return you break my heart ...” I can still hear her clear voice. No great
singer; but she knew every word of this beautiful ballad, and touched our
hearts with her rendition.
The tradition remains in our family—Boxing Day is still special. Most of my family have passed on sadly, but I will always have
memories to treasure and hope you are making wonderful memories at this special
time of the year.
Tricia McGill's books can be found here:
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