During our weekly phone conversation, my father and I often discuss up-coming family functions. Christmas is no exception. PETE: We’ll come at noon. Wendy’s bringing a turkey. ME: That’s no way to talk about yourself! (prolonged pause for laughter only to be filled by a gaping silence) I’d like to think the lack of laughter was not the fault of the joke itself which, frankly, was near perfect but the subject matter. After all, Christmas is a very serious business. In ‘A Christmas Carol’, Ebenezer Scrooge has possibly the worst night’s sleep of his miserable life when the ghost of a former business partner rocks up to tell him to expect a visitation from the spirits of Christmases Past, Present and Yet to Come. In a way, we’re all like Scrooge. By that, I don’t mean miserly or otherwise wretched, but that Christmas is a bit of a signpost for where we’ve been and where we’re headed.
During our weekly phone conversation, my father and I often discuss up-coming family functions. Christmas is no exception. PETE: We’ll come at noon. Wendy’s bringing a turkey. ME: That’s no way to talk about yourself! (prolonged pause for laughter only to be filled by a gaping silence) I’d like to think the lack of laughter was not the fault of the joke itself which, frankly, was near perfect but the subject matter. After all, Christmas is a very serious business. In ‘A Christmas Carol’, Ebenezer Scrooge has possibly the worst night’s sleep of his miserable life when the ghost of a former business partner rocks up to tell him to expect a visitation from the spirits of Christmases Past, Present and Yet to Come. In a way, we’re all like Scrooge. By that, I don’t mean miserly or otherwise wretched, but that Christmas is a bit of a signpost for where we’ve been and where we’re headed.
For me, the ghost of Christmas past is a certain time of day. As a kid, it was all about getting up early. The sense of anticipation that accompanied the big day was close to unbearable. Heightened expectations meant the chances of getting to sleep on Christmas Eve would be negligible were it not for the decision of television programmers to broadcast near unwatchable schlock which invariably involved some dodgy sitcom doing their own hilarious take on ‘A Christmas Carol’ that, in reality, consisted of dressing up poorly and gluing on a pair of mutton chops that virtually guaranteed that anyone under the age of thirty would be counting sheep before nine o’clock.
I’d never hear Father Christmas arrive. Instead, it would be the sound of one of my younger brothers or sisters performing reconnaissance up and down the hallway that would manage to pull me from my ‘A Christmas Carol’-induced coma. Slow creeping footsteps on the way down; followed by a trample that might easily have been a herd of very small elephants as they returned to relay what they’d seen underneath the tree. Finding your present was always made more challenging by the fact of my father’s near-illegible handwriting. Even he would be unable to decipher it. The rest of us had no hope. I think I assumed that Christmas day would stay like that forever, but I was wrong.
Despite those spectacular early mornings of our childhood, there was a time when my siblings and I were in our late teens and early twenties that Christmas was a hit and miss affair. For a few years, it was a piecemeal event that meant some of us were at a loose end on the day itself. It was during this time that the five of us started ‘the foot photo’. As a reaction to years of awkward pictures perched in front of a tree, my brother and sisters and I decided that we’d take a photograph of our shoes instead as an alternative kind of family portrait. Every time I see those photos, I’m both glad that we took them and pleased that those years of disconnected catch-ups were only temporary. Things changed when Brodie came along.
Brodie was (and, indeed, still is) the first nephew to arrive in our family. This changed everything. Suddenly, Christmas was back on as a major family event, albeit one that centred around an infant. From then on, Christmas became something of a spectator sport. There is no greater sight than a room full of nephews and nieces as the scurry over presents at the foot of the tree, desperately attempting to decode my father’s handwriting. Now days, my sister’s children have a tradition of their own.
My sister’s four kids don’t photograph their shoes as we did. Rather, each year they have their picture taken at the local shopping centre with Father Christmas. The wall of their living room shows them growing up with Saint Nick. Currently, it’s at something of a cross roads as the older two are sixteen and seventeen. I’ve made the point that what may feel slightly embarrassing now is on the very cusp of becoming hilarious. My hope for them is that they keep going as they hit their twenties and beyond. No matter what lies ahead, that the four of them turn up to have their picture taken with Santa.
This year is different: we’re hosting. It means all the preparations that for several decades I have taken for granted are now my responsibility. Whether this is the ghost of Christmas future remains to be seen. Everyone’s pitching in and bringing something to eat. Our job will be to create the right kind of atmosphere. It’s no easy feat. Already, I’ve scoured various second hand shops in search of suitably festive Christmas albums, finding a particular horrific example of the genre entitled ‘Once Upon a Christmas’ by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton – the title, no doubt, indicating the number of times anyone could listen to the record without wanting to pull their own ears off and cast them into the ocean. Atmosphere is no easy thing. My father seemed to do it effortlessly.
The big day is almost upon is. The tree is up. We have a contingency plan for the dog in case she gets over-excited and activities planned. At a certain point, preparation will yield to the colour and movement of the day itself. There will, I suspect, be children everywhere. Even Ebenezer himself could not help but get caught up in the excitement. I’m not sure whether we’ll take a foot photo or all head down to the local shopping centre where twenty members of my immediate family all clamber aboard the trembling knee of an unsuspecting Santa, but whatever we do, it’s bound to be great. There’s little else to do now but borrow the words of Charles Dickens and say, ‘Merry Christmas’.