My bloody father used to hoover on Christmas Day. And we really resented it. Sure, we joked about it to his face. Because we could. Because it was Christmas and he was in a good mood. Up until the mid-80s, he was miserable when he wasn’t at work and it wasn’t until he started making money that he cheered up after the office was shut. So, it was December 25th and the mess us children made messed his head up.
Christmas was fine so long as nobody mentioned presents or being excited by the prospect of them.
He found the whole thing so very stressful that only way he could regain control was to get out the old vacuum cleaner and suck up a sackload of wrapping paper, cat fluff, tree needles, fag ash and toys. The latter irritated him so much that he would throw away what he could as soon as possible, often times still in their jazzy ribbons. This plaything phobia extended into our adulthood when toys that mum had managed to keep from his clutches and store in the attic were chucked after she died; dollshouses, teddies, anything with childhood stamped on it was taken to the dump without sentiment. He wasn’t being malicious either. When asked if he recalled what he had culled, he was cheerfully and absolutely blank. All he saw was a nice empty space that no longer troubled him.
One year, he was so cross with us for not meticulously noting which gift was from whom, that he gathered up all our loot and told us it was going to Oxfam to be given to kids who would appreciate it enough to remember who it was that gave them the jolly stuff in the first place. We did not see the flaw in his reason and were beside ourselves with distress. The lesson was learned quickly and today my lot are not allowed to open anything without first writing down the donor’s inside leg measurement and hat size.
Once, when we were possibly even contemplating ‘enjoying’ the festivities with our toddlers, he asked me what he could get them for Christmas and added that he wasn’t buying toys because they had “far too many already”. And I kept counsel on the fleeting nature of childhood. Give ‘em bottles of port Dad, and a Montecristo cigar each. That’ll be swell
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But he wasn’t a grumpy bugger all of the festive time. Pour him a drink before 10am and he warmed up rapidly. Take toys out of the equation – ie. when we got older – and add a walk on a beach or across rainswept fields, and he was ecstatic, and very funny. In fact, once the fear of him losing his temper was diminished by our age related enablement, when we could tell him shut up and stop being a fusty old git in a pinny without getting clumped, Christmas as a family, including our beloved Marian and Simon, their best friends, became the focal point of our year and we planned the next one from the moment the twelfth day closed. Our best Christmases were undoubtedly as freshly grown ups; sitting together in a dim rented house in South Devon, the electricity cut by storms and the bird cooling in the dead oven, steep lanes impassable thanks to ice; present-opening fuelled by gin and Gauloises; Dad wearing snorkel, goggles and fins, over stiff new pyjamas (he still sleeps in his birthday suit) and us laughing so hard that our glands ached from the pressure. Pubs, walks, dogs.. Mainly though, presents were still a taboo and many a Christmas Day passed with stuff left unopened under the tree because somehow he couldn’t face the giving. More likely though, it was the mess.
S’all different now. With mum gone, our new relaxed Dad (with delightful new wife) thoroughly relishes surprising the children. Whether it is festooning a tree at Easter with eggs for them to harvest – their enthusiasm, to his bafflement, somewhat muted by the fact that he used dog poo bags to hang them in – or encouraging his grandson to strike matches for him to get a New Year log going without a trace of health and safety in mind, before distributing exquisitely wrapped gifts that reveal themselves to be perfect, like a remote-controlled speedboat for Fred, or a telescope for Willa; amber bracelets for Constance; bags and bags of chocolate; trinkets; toys.
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We don’t ‘do’ Christmas as the Family Crow any more. Not with Dad. Nor with me and my three sisters. Or with Jake, Marian and Simon’s son, who we consider our brother. Indeed, even they are divorced now, with new partners: as older adults, we have new rituals and other familial concerns. Patterns change
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It has been a while since I’ve blogged properly – my energies diverted by swimming teaching, school job, a busy bookshop (yeh!.. but just hear the arctic howl in January) – now Christmas has finally arrived and I’ve been to mum’s grave, the turkey is in and all the carefully selected and wrapped presents have been scattered, trashed, squashed and discarded, and I am sitting beside our open fire for the very last Heber Road Christmas before we up our roots and resettle on the otherside of the wood. And I am thinking how thrilling and pleasant it is to have the time and space to think and write, while the children are distracted by their new Scalextric..
But I might just get the hoover out first….
A beautiful post as usual Justine, thanks.
Posted by: Meredith | 31/12/2007 at 09:13 AM
Happy New Year Meredith! Thanks for reading my intermittent stuff..
Posted by: JACrow | 31/12/2007 at 05:21 PM
More writing and less hoovering, if you please. Happy New Year (fluffy white peas).
Posted by: Caro | 31/12/2007 at 07:23 PM
And Happy New Year to you Caro. Shall kiss my glass at midnight and think of you.. (going to Yoga Janet's and JP the naughty Frenchman's party.. last year, same couple's fab party, we forgot to do the chimes).
Posted by: JACrow | 31/12/2007 at 08:13 PM
Hello, Justine - Meredith sent me. She was right ... and I do love the yarn. Noice style.
Posted by: Julie | 01/01/2008 at 10:13 AM