For me, Christmas is a time of reminiscing of Christmas's Past. The history of our lives is steeped in our traditions and as I move through these days of preparation I am haunted by nostalgia at every turning point.
Getting down the crystal bowls for the salads and ambrosia this morning I remembered the way they sparkled on our Christmas table when I was a child. As I ran my finger over the cut patterns I recalled the story my Mum told me of how this particular bowl was her 21st gift from my Grandfather.
The tattered front cover of our carol music album is decorated with choir girls in 1940's perms and bright red lipstick. They remind me I always thought angels wore lipstick!
Tonight we will go to Midnight Mass, and I know the heady scent of incense will take me back to the Christmases when my children were younger and their warm heavy heads lay asleep on my shoulders and my back creaked as I stopped them from falling off the pew. I know that when Mass is almost over and the Priest puts the statue of baby Jesus in the waiting manger, that I'll shed a tear or two of thankfulness for His great gift to us.
Another memory was refreshed today as I made stuffing for the turkey. The last time I had turkey at Christmas was when I was four or five. My family were holidaying in a little place called Sutton, which is in an isolated part of Central Otago. We stayed in a little wooden house, with no electricity or plumbing. My mind boggles as I remember how Mum packed up everything we needed in the car. Plates, crockery, cooking utensils, linen, special Christmas food and presents as well. All for a family of five. Mum, you were a legend!
But the Christmas I remember the most in Sutton, was the one where Dad decided we would buy our own turkey - alive! I wrote a story about it a couple of years ago and thought I would share it with you. I hope you enjoy it.
AUGUSTUS
Excitement bubbles around me. My head is full of visions: a red clothed Santa flying through the sky, a big pillow case of
pressies in the morning, and a scrumptious feast all day.
But this Christmas is extra special. Aunty May has come on holiday with us. Dear Aunty May with her long brown plait that winds and winds around her head, like a swiss milkmaid. Her pretty dresses and her fusty smell. And even more exciting than Aunty May, today we are going on a drive to Mrs. Abernethey’s farm.
“Mrs. Abernethey has one of ‘those’ in her kitchen,” my brother tells me with awe in his voice.
“One of what?” I ask in hushed wonder.
“ A freezer,” he replies, the smuggest of looks on his face.
I think of our fridge at home in Dunedin. White with black edges and shiny metal trims, and a badge on the front with fancy red writing. You pull on the big metal handle, right down and very hard. Inside it’s cold and damp. There’s meat wrapped in brown paper, and milk bottles, sitting like soldiers on the bottom shelf. On the top shelf is an ice box, just big enough for a tray of cubes. The fridge is as tall as me and I’m little for a four year old.
A freezer at home? Unheard of.
Big brother deals out more spectacular news. Not only does Mrs. Abernethey own a freezer. She has ice cream! Not at a shop. Not at the dairy. But in her home!
So, with mouths watering, Dad ushers us all into the big Morris Oxford. It’s rounded and blue and solid, with shiny metal bits around the edges.
Inside the air is hot and stuffy. Dad winds down the windows. The brown leather seat, scorches the back of my knees. I stand up inside looking down at my sandalled feet and the row of red, fluffy pom-poms stitched to the hem of my sleeveless top. My brothers push and pull at me. Dad growls and they sit down.
The wheels bite at the gravel, hissing and crunching. Dust clouds billow behind us. The car rattles as it dances and shudders over loose stones.
Large, dark framed glasses sit upon Dad’s huge hooked nose. A brown pipe hangs from his mouth, like it’s glued to his lips. A short sleeved shirt and striped shorts hang from his pale, hairy body. A wonderful tuft of greying hair sprouts from the base of his throat.
Mum sits quietly, her black curls shining above a smiling face. New glamourous glasses perch on her perfect nose. A tight fitting floral dress shows off her plump, brown arms.
I listen to them talk, my head turning back and forth as they chat. Mrs. Abernethey not only has ice cream and a freezer, she has turkeys! Lots of turkeys. And we are going to get one! The excitement is too much. A freezer. Real ice cream. Pet turkeys. And it’s Christmas!
At the end of the road we turn left; I recognise this as the way to Middlemarch. There is a shop in Middlemarch. A shop and the train station. Then we turn right. The hills are getting closer. They look ragged and crooked with rocks sticking out at odd angles. Up the hill we go, twisting and turning.
Finally we are there! Mrs. Abernethey’s house sits long and low at the end of the road. We stumble out onto her gravel drive, jostling one another as we rush to greet her. She is tall and thin and wears her grey hair folded in a neat French pleat. Wiping her lumpy hands on her pink pinny she smiles at us. We follow her, my brothers and me, through the door to see her freezer. It sits along the wall: white, long and mysterious.
The lid lifts with a ‘thuck’ sound and Mrs. Abernethey leans it back against the wall. Thick, white mist escapes, rolling up and up. I am too small to see inside.
With bare arms that wobble, Mrs. Abernethey reaches in and pulls out a great big box. Ice cream! She gives us a bowl of cold, cold ice cream. Snowy white lumps of sweet vanilla, slowly melt in green china bowls.
Mrs. Abernethey leaves us to eat our delicious treat. Her heavy booted feet take her away to where we can hear the gobbling of turkeys. Mum and Dad follow her. I think they are picking out my pet turkey.
“Time to go now,” Dad calls through the doorway, wiping his hands on the seat of his shorts.
Mum pinches a mouthful of my sloppy melted treat, then stacks our bowls on the bench. She smiles at me, then at Mrs. Abernethey, taking my hand as we leave. My teeth are numb, my tummy is chilly.
We’re back in the car again. Down the hill we go, strange thumps and bumps coming from the boot. I lean over the front seat and stare out the window, my head full of pet turkeys. What does the turkey look like? I think he is red. What will I call him? I’m sure he is mine.
The car rumbles down the hill and along the straight roads. Our little crib stands at the side of the road. With two windows and one door in front and a smelly long drop, off to the side. Aunty May waves from the end of the drive. I jump up and down inside the car, excited. My Christmas present is in the boot and I can’t wait to give him his name: Augustus!
Feathers make a terrible tickly mess. Aunty May and Mum have floral aprons over their dresses and sticky feathers up to their elbows. A big pale lump of puckered flesh lies at Mum’s feet in the grass. I watch curiously, keeping my distance as I play with my doll. I wander over to the fence. My brothers are playing cricket with Dad.
I think about Augustus. Do you put a turkey in wrapping paper? Will he fit in the pillowcase with all my other pressies?
Christmas Day is hot and sunny. My pillowcase is filled with good things: chocolates and toys, a wedding dress for my doll, and special books to read.
Augustus isn’t in my pillowcase. I look for him. He isn’t stuck under the tree. There isn’t a turkey under the bed. Perhaps he is hiding.
Fifteen of us squash around the table. We eat wonderfully delicious food. Roast meat with cranberry sauce; salads and vegetables; Pavlova; trifle; and steamed pud full of sixpences. There are funny hats and crackers and we finish with chocolate mints and fizz.
With a full tummy, sticky fingers and a bed covered with new toys, I yawn loudly. Curling up around my white satin bridal doll, I think about the whole glorious day. Aunts and uncles; cousins and Grandma; sweet lollies and salty chips; masses of brightly coloured paper; and prickly kisses from whiskery old aunts.
Sleepily, I think about my pet turkey and wonder: whatever happened to Augustus?
