Advent Day Six

Hello Friends!

My contribution to Blogmas is taking a very different turn to the one I'd planned, and that is fine.  Let's just go with the flow. This is how I remember Christmas morning.

We all know the tradition of a Christmas Stocking.  Mine was not a fancy embroidered or handmade heirloom kind, but one of a pair of socks belonging to my Daddy.  I was allowed one of his, a big woolly fisherman's sock, because mine were just too small!  I would place it with great care at the foot of my bed and lie awake for what seemed like hours hoping to catch even the most fleeting of glimpses of red, or hear the music of sleighbells as reindeer alighted on our roof.  It was not to be.  Father Christmas knew the moment I'd nodded off and in he swooped and off he flew in less than the time it takes for a snowflake to melt in summer.

Credit: Mary Engelbreit

When morning came, I often awoke to see a windowpane where Jack Frost had danced, and my breath puffed in clouds, yet it never seemed cold, not like it does today.  My room was directly above the kitchen, and the fragrant smells of a turkey slowly roasting overnight wafted upwards, and I could hear my mother and grandmother already up and going about the business of preparing for the Christmas feast, but nothing could steal my excitement as I discovered a stocking full of goodies at the foot of my cosy bed! There was always a colouring book and crayons, some sweets, an apple and a satsuma or clementine, some money, a bag of chocolate coins, and a handful of nuts that later in the morning my Daddy would shell for me to eat.

I would dash downstairs, tumbling head first into the kitchen to see if Father Christmas had eaten his mince pies, drank his sherry and taken the carrots for the reindeer.  There was always a lovely note to say Thank You for thinking of him!  Oh! Great Joy! Proof positive!

Credit: Mary Engelbreit

I barrelled out of the kitchen where my mother and grandmother were cooing over the turkey and now beginning on preparing the vegetables.  I am sure the Brussels Sprouts were already on boiling!  Down the hall I hurtled and into the front room where my eyes beheld the view all children hoped to find . . . the tree surrounded with parcels.  The excitement was now unbearable! 

The next two hours would be agony, pure unadulterated agony.  I was hauled off into the bathroom, washed and dressed in my new Christmas outfit.  We never ate breakfast before going to church, so off we went to the early 8:00 a.m. service which in the eyes of a child on Christmas morning seemed to drag on into the next century.  Eventually, after much being patted on the head and repeatedly asked the endless question every adult asks on Christmas morning, "Did Father Christmas visit you last night?" wishing adults were not so curious a breed, we were home and tucking in to a light breakfast. 

Credit Mary Engelbreit

Finally, the opening of presents commenced.  At some point, my mother, who needed to be back in the kitchen, decided we'd come back to the rest after lunch.  My agony was to be prolonged!  Tears followed but were quickly eased with the offering of a piece of chocolate from one of the dishes on the sideboard.  Bribery worked!  The adults went about their day and I settled down to play with new toys and read books.

After a mid morning top up of coffee and mince pies, my father and I snacked on dried fruit and nuts so how we found room for Christmas Dinner I will never know, but soon we were sitting at the dining table which was threatening to give way as it groaned under the weight of all the food.  There was turkey, sausage meat stuffing, chipolatas, bacon rolls, roast potatoes, creamed potatoes with swede, boiled carrots, honeyed parsnips, mushy peas, bread sauce, gravy, and of course, Brussels Sprouts which by now were overcooked beyond the pale.  No one would dare eat more than a few spoons full of everything as room must be left for the Christmas Pudding that followed.

The pudding arrived at the table.  We pulled our crackers, read the awful jokes and donned our paper hats.  Then in time honoured tradition the great round pudding was set on fire!  We watched in awe as the blue flames flickered, then the pudding was served with lashings of brandy sauce.  

If anyone had an empty corner to fill and come back for second helpings, this was the moment, but no one ever did, we were stuffed!  The table was cleared and the long job of washing dishes commenced.  My poor mother and grandmother.  Christmas day for them was one long slog. I did not come to appreciate this fact for some years.  

We settled around in the living room and finished opening the presents that had been kept back.  The number of presents was the drawback of a large family who exchanged with everyone until some years later the matriarchs agreed to stop.

Shortly after The Queen's Speach, there would be a knock on the door.  It was answered, and in stepped Mr Dewi Jones from the Beehive where my mother worked in the shop.  Beaming, he handed me a parcel saying that Father Christmas had left this in the shop by mistake so he'd brought it down for me. Sure enough, the label had my name and with love from Father Christmas.  It was always a book, to my delight!

Credit: Mary Engelbreit

At some point in the afternoon, the dishes were finally done and we all sat around the fire in the cosy front room watching whatever special film was on television, most of us probably drifting off to a long winter's nap after eating too much . . . ready for Round Two . . . 

Until tomorrow . . .