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THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
by David L Jones
In
my boyhood, Christmas day was always spent at home, and work was limited
to the basic necessities in the household and on the farm for man and
beast. As far as was humanly possible everything was done to make
Christmas and Boxing Day different and special. Cows were milked and
animals were fed and where possible essential chores were prepared ahead
to provide what we deemed to be a 'holiday', we did at least try to
avoid many of the everyday tasks which a livestock farm encountered
during its normal daily routine.
Our kitchen was a large room, and as was common to farm kitchens of the
time it was the room where meals were prepared and cooked; it was also
the dining room where the family, workers and guests ate their meals.
Much of the cooking and baking took place in the highly polished
'black-leaded' oven and on the open fire but on Christmas day the
traditional goose was always cooked on a brass spit which hung from a
'jack' which was a hook arrangement attached to the 'mantelpiece', and
which apart for Christmas day, it was just another ornament to be
polished. In readiness for the festive day the kitchen was a hive of
industry preparing for the big day, and leaving only the actual cooking
of the festive dinner with its accompanying rich aromatic cooking smells
to set the special aura of Christmas day. I always felt that the
goose turning on the spit and the smell of the fat globules
noisily bursting onto the red hot coals contributed to the festivity.
My
father never owned a car until some time after the end of the second
world war, and as buses didn't run on Bank holiday's, in what some would
deem to be the 'good old days', this very factor in part contributed to
the fun and the enjoyment of our Christmas festivities. On Boxing night
the pony was harnessed, and the carriage lamps having had their annual
cleaning were lit, and having settled into the trap we'd set out as a
family on our memorable journeys on the then virtually car free roads to
the customary Boxing night party at my mother's family home. I can
never remember a wet and miserable Boxing night. They were always dry
and cold with a hint of snow, and with the moon shining in the star lit
sky. That's how I remember it! And just as well, because while we
were warmly clothed and had thick rugs blanketing our knees,
it would not have been very pleasant travelling in an open vehicle on a
black wet night with the ornate but dim candle lit carriage lamps
producing but a glimmer of light. The journeys are but fleeting memories
of time broken only by a brief stop at a hostelry as we peacefully made
our way to my grandmother's home. The usual excuse for the stop was to
give the pony a rest, but it really was part of the charade which we
played year after year as we made our way to the party, I wonder what
people would think today if they saw a pony trotting along pulling a
'trap' carrying a family who were singing their heads off. They were
joyful times, and in my ripe old age they still provide me with happy
memories. It was a party of family and friends, and there
was the village policeman, a man of decidedly large proportions and with
a tell tale red nose! I don't know what category he came into but he'd
been a conspicuous regular for many years. He usually arrived somewhat
late in the evening or more often than not in the early hours of the
morning wearing a somewhat jovial but bemused look, having ended a
supposed official tour of the local hostelries! On one
such occasion he arrived wearing an even more jovial and somewhat
bemused look and it wasn't long before he'd removed his helmet and the
rest of his regalia and was joining in the festivities. Sadly it was a
time when our defender of the law, overcome by the exacting demands of
his prior duty calls and the party's hospitality finally succumbed
and was left to rest completely oblivious of the good humoured antics
and festivities. Without his helmet perched on the singer’s head
the customary rendering from the "Pirates of Penzance" was never quite
the same. Regardless of absentees for whatever reason, there
was always a crowd, what with uncles and aunts, grandchildren and
friends, many of them life long friends who went back to early school
days. When I think of the family friends, especially those who really
had grown up with my mother's large family, I am reminded that it was
joked that the odd interloper would never have been noticed, they'd
grown up with my mother’s brothers and her sisters, sharing the good
times as well as the bad, and for me they embodied the spirit of what
were the 'good old days'. One could sense the atmosphere in the large
farm kitchen with its outsize family table, and the Welsh dresser,
dressed Welsh fashion with its assortment of plates and lustre jugs.
Against another wall was an upright piano, the principal instrument of
entertainment before the days of television.
My grandmother, a
small slightly deaf but smart old lady, wearing pince-nez glasses, would
sit regally near the open fire-place enjoying the festivities and a
whisky. A large barrel of beer tapped to quench the thirsts
of the men, lay on a salting slab in the dairy room adjoining the
kitchen while set out for the customary Boxing night party meal were
tureens of hot mashed potatoes and Swede to compliment the turkey
and home cured ham, and the pickled beef and Ox tongue, which was always
followed by trifle with fresh farm cream and Christmas cake.
Apart from a break to eat, the piano was played almost non-stop by
Auntie Annie, with a cigarette invariably dangling from her lips, and a
whisky within easy reach, ready to be sipped between exhaled puffs of
smoke. There never seemed to be a tune that she didn't know or a singer
that she couldn't accompany, regardless of key. Aunt Janet with her
lovely contralto voice would entertain us with some of the then
favourites. I suppose they may well have been considered as the thirties
equivalent of 'Top of the pops', that is of course with a considerable
stretching of one's imagination. They were the star
performers. My father's contribution was the odd witty recitation or a
popular monologue to suit the occasion, otherwise the party centred
around singing the popular songs of the day, and there was always Uncle
Wyndham's annual party piece, his very own version of "Maa-mi", having
first removed his false teeth and rolled the legs of his trousers up
over his knees. I could never determine whether it was that he
didn't know the words or that the party revellers never gave him a fair
hearing, what I am sure of is that I never heard him finish his party
piece. I had the feeling that he only knew the first line of the chorus.
So the evening progressed, and of course there was plenty of gossip and
laughter, all good old fashioned harmless fun. Never a dull moment!
What a contrast, the simple pleasures and self made fun of yesteryears
and the T.V. centred entertainment of today ... Gone are the day's ....
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