It used to be so easy. Once, Christmas happened as if by magic. All I had to do was wake up and it was there, in all its shiny, glittering glory. Not anymore. Christmas now is not magic but a looming deadline for a whole range of tasks. From that moment in about mid-October when you hear the first strained snippet of a Christmas Carol seeping from the supermarket speakers, the weight of an awesome responsibility begins to settle on your shoulders. It’s both a test of endurance and race to the finish line. That’s because Christmas requires the kind of planning ordinarily reserved for a land-based invasion. And almost as many casualties.
It used to be so easy. Once, Christmas happened as if by magic. All I had to do was wake up and it was there, in all its shiny, glittering glory. Not anymore. Christmas now is not magic but a looming deadline for a whole range of tasks. From that moment in about mid-October when you hear the first strained snippet of a Christmas Carol seeping from the supermarket speakers, the weight of an awesome responsibility begins to settle on your shoulders. It’s both a test of endurance and race to the finish line. That’s because Christmas requires the kind of planning ordinarily reserved for a land-based invasion. And almost as many casualties.
Last year, we offered to host. In that sense, we had only ourselves to blame. Let me say now that we drastically under-estimated what it takes to stage a family event of this magnitude. Previously, I thought the preparations would largely consist of clearing space on the table for the turkey and a few bon bons. I accept that I was entirely deluded. It was not helped by the fact that we elected to set the bar quite high. We were determined to do something different; to try and put our own indelible stamp on the day. My wife was quite keen on the idea of games to keep kids of all ages entertained. Consequently, we scoured Southland shopping centre the week before Christmas for Yuletide-themed piñata.
Upon reflection, I’m not sure that such things even exist. It’s hard to imagine anyone selling a paper mache Santa that children then beat with a stick until it breaks in half. We briefly contemplated making our own Father Christmas piñata, but I was concerned that we might overdo things, creating something that was too close to indestructible. The only thing worse than beating Santa with a stick is upgrading to a baseball bat with a nail in it. Assaulting Saint Nick, even in paper mache form, may not be in the best possible taste.
Owing to the size of my family, Christmas meals have always involved two distinct teams. Diners were, like post-war Berlin, cruelly divided into groups: there were those on the big table and then there are the rest, consigned to the ultimate ignominy that was ‘the kids table’. For as long as I can remember, the primary aspiration of my life was to escape the clutches of ‘the kids table’. To be elevated to the big table would, so I believed, be all the confirmation I would ever need of my burgeoning maturity. Besides, it’s hard to eat Christmas dinner when you’re crammed around a card table and sitting in miniature plastic chairs which, for anyone older than five, are basically something you wear rather than sit on; like a pair of brightly coloured moulded underpants. How I longed to sit on a real chair.
Unfortunately, we don’t own a table that seats twenty-five people. But neither to we own a card table, ensuring that the quality of any subsidiary furniture was bound to be more suited to dinner than a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. But we still didn’t have much in the way of seating. First, we contemplated seating people in shifts. In reality, this is perhaps a more extreme response to having a ‘big’ and ‘little’ table. It would never suffice.
It was clear that we needed chairs and lots of them. Having seen ‘MacGyver’ in several three-second bursts whilst changing channels, I knew that the answer would have to be improvised. Using string, household baking soda and a decorative cushion, I managed to fashion something that resembled all those items after they’d tripped over each other. It didn’t make for much of anything, much less something you’d deposit your backside on. Instead, we did the honourable thing and threw ourselves on the mercy of our neighbours.
Lucky for us, they came through in fine style. As did members of the family, who arrived with plates of food and gifts that transformed our Christmas tree from a glittering Lone Pine to something from which an extraordinary bounty of gifts appeared to have fallen. And then there were the people themselves. There is nothing better at Christmas time that the hum of happy conversation over lunch. It was nothing short of spectacular. When the time came, family members marched to the clothesline from which we’d hung a homemade piñata. Ultimately, it was a crepe paper globe rather than an effigy and kids took delight in thumping it until it spilled its chocolate payload onto the grass.
This year, we’re back at the farm in Tyabb and, already, the festive spirit is alive and well within my family. Earlier this week, I received a phone call from my four-year old nephew, Tyler. He’d decided that he wanted to sing me his all time favourite Festive Carol: Christmas in Hollis by RUN DMC. There are, I believe, far too few rap Christmas Carols. I was impressed both by the message and by my nephew’s lyrical flow. I can’t wait until we’re all together again, gathered around the tree and the Pianola, belting out our rendition of Christmas in Hollis, after which I will take my seat at the big table. Have a wonderful Christmas and a safe and prosperous New Year. XXXXX