THE WAY THINGS ARE
By Colette NiReamonn Ioannidou
Christmas causes much diversity in human emotions. For some it is a gaudy, money-spending frenzy, too much food and drink, a celebration that is supposed to be full of cheer and joy and Christian spirit when families get together and have fun. More often than not it ends in dismal discovery that ‘family’ is not all the word is cut out to be and the gift-giving and receiving is not that wonderful either. We all know Auntie Mary’s penchant for buying horrible jumpers and on odd occasions we get back our own recycled gifts. Memory tends to paint the festive season with a happy glow, so by the time the next Christmas comes around, we are prepared to do battle with it once more.
For others it is a joy, a time of reflection and love in the true spirit of the birth of the Christ child. They love the glitz and glitter and revel in the pleasure of going around shops where the piped carols fill them with delight as they search for perfect and appropriate gifts. They adore decorating homes and environs with colourful lights that lend a fuzz of warmth to the chill of December nights, and cook enough to feed an army of ravenous Visigoths. Some revellers even end up in hospital from having over eaten.
When I was young Christmas was very special. Gifts were placed at the end of the bed. So enquiring little feet, after ears at the opposite end of their bodies had fallen asleep waiting to hear the bells on Santa’s sleigh, found crinkly, crackly paper filled with gifts to explore in the middle of the night. Then the household got up, tea was made, cake and pudding were cut and everyone enjoyed the child’s reactions to what Santa had left. There was a marvellous children’s choir in the local church, relations to visit in expectation of gifts or money and log fire nights singing carols around the piano. In our village church every Christmas a large crib was erected. The figures were life sized and impressive. We youngsters were encouraged to gaze at it and recall that Christ had humble beginnings among domestic animals.
My sister’s son on one occasion had asked for a cowboy outfit and guns. No problem, the letter he sent to Santa was answered with a positive ‘yes’ to his request. Christmas morning arrived and we children set out on the trek around the village. My sister lived near us, so I went to her home first. There was her son sitting amidst a pile of toys, resplendent in his cowboy waistcoat and fringed chaps, toy six-shooters strapped to his middle, crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘He says it’s no good being a cowboy if he can’t have a horse.’ My sister sighed.
She had tried to explain to him that a horse had not been on his Santa list and, anyway, it wasn’t practical. He stomped out muttering cowboys had to have horses and we assumed he had gone to my mother, his granny. Lunchtime came and there was no sign of the boy. My sister and her husband grew anxious and started phoning around and asking around to see if the boy was with any of the large number of relations. No, nobody had seen him. Time passed, food grew cold, and the police were called. Just when despair was beginning to rip into stomachs, hearts and minds, the boy was found. In those days, church doors were left open morning till night and it had occurred to the child that if he couldn’t have a horse, the next best thing was a donkey.
‘He was in the crib,’ the policeman told his parents, ‘riding on the donkey yelling giddy-yup, giddy-yup!’
Laughter eased the tension, the turkey ham and roast potatoes were heated up again, the soggy Brussels’ sprouts re-boiled, and the feast of Christmas became an actual feast.
There are those this year with a vacant chair at Christmas that all the gifts, warm sentiments or glowing lights will not fill. There will be pain sadness and, hopefully, memories of Christmases past that were warm and loving to offer a therapeutic smile. For those who have lost someone dear close to one of the happiest events of the year, there will always be a cloud hanging over it. A lot then depends on whether you believe that there is an afterlife and it’s only a matter of time until you join those who have gone, or live in the belief that what you have left of them in your heart and mind will keep them alive as long as you live. Either way, those who have lost need us to give more than ever at this time. Too often it’s a preferable, if guilty, choice to avoid a home that weeps and I don’t mean in disappointment over Auntie Mary’s horrible jumpers.
