Keep it in the family

We, my cousins and I, waited impatiently outside the living room door. “Are you ready yet,” shouted little Jonny, “Oh hurry up!” The door was duly opened and in we scuttled, a cluster of kids, our eyes darting around, searching excitedly. And the assembled oldies, they started to sing: “how green you are, how green you are…” to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. The nearer we got to our prize – traditionally a walnut hidden in plain sight – the louder the singing became, if we moved away the volume decreased.

Childhood Christmas in England meant for me, grandparents, uncles and aunts, plus a scrum of cousins of varying ages descending on our house throughout Christmas Day and my Mother rushing around ensuring no one could ever be described as anything less than absolutely stuffed to the gunnels. The focus of the day would gravitate, almost as predictably as the film repeats in the TV scheduling, from the frenzy of present opening, to a mountainous Christmas lunch and on to after lunch recovery, which can be best described as lounging on the sofa groaning in mock pain while the Christmas pud went down. Fortunately, before pangs of hunger had even thought of panging party hats were donned and Christmas tea appeared: towering plates of turkey sandwiches and mince pies, washed down with cups of milky tea. And then, finally, it was time for the games, the part that us kids and I suspect the adults looked forward to the most.

This was and still is Christmas to me. I do acknowledge the religious connotations; the Midnight Mass, Nativity and all things to do with Jesus (I’m all for anyone who can turn water into wine), and, when still young we would accompany my Mother to church for candle-lit carols and the Christmas Day service. That is until my Father was forbidden from attending any longer. You see, the reverend made the mistake, after a particularly lengthy sermon, of asking my Dad what he had thought of the service. Never one to mince his words, he said simply: “Boring, vicar. I thought it was rather boring.” 

Dad still revels in the fact that he was banned from church, thirty years on.

This year, however, all has been different. Our recent emigration has put 3000 miles of Atlantic Ocean between me, finding that walnut – the singing will be very quiet indeed – and my parents, siblings and relatives. Christmas has instead been an intimate affair. Waking on Christmas morning with just my lovely wife and baby boy, it’s been much quieter (I’m not putting batteries in any of his new toys) and the realisation that we miss our family more intense than at any time since we arrived in Canada.

But don’t think we’re feeling down. Our first Canadian Christmas sees us celebrating our new lives. It’s the first year that little Z set to unwrapping the pile of presents under the tree with gusto; and, we have made wonderful friends who took it upon themselves to show us just how Canadians celebrate Christmas.

And so to everyone, I say thank you for making our time so far in Canada an enjoyable one. I bid you a very Merry Christmas and insist that you play silly games, sing till you’re fit to burst and revel in the best company you could wish for, your family large or small.  

By the way, there was no prize for finding that walnut: other than the elation of plucking it from its hiding place amongst Uncle Robert’s bouffant wig (you could guarantee it was hidden there at least once a year). The singing, which had risen to a cacophony, would explode into a rousing cheer; we kids dancing joyfully around the living room for a just moment before demanding: “PLAY AGAIN! PLAY AGAIN!”