What A Wonder Is Christmas

Anniversaries have a wonderful charm for most children. Because of their youthfulness, the passage of a year holds so much for them and the markers of a year that matter are festivals. Of course, birthdays are usually the most important, but for Christian children the next is usually Christmas. I hope that I wont offend my non-Christian friends by my not referring to whatever holidays they celebrate towards the end of a calendar year. I was brought up with the sparkle in the eyes of children at the prospect of Santa Claus arriving on the night of Christmas Eve, with his sleigh laden and his reindeer panting with excitement as they rushed around to every house to drop off the gifts before morning.


Growing up in the Caribbean, we never bothered with the contradictions of a chubby, red-faced Caucasian, heading from Greenland, over snow-covered landscapes to get to our warm lands in his heavy fur-lined coat. We did not worry about notions of Santa coming down our chimneys, even though most of us never had any idea of what was a indoor fireplace and a mantelpiece. We did not see anything amiss with images of ornament laden fir trees--we usually saw some of those even if only in a public square or a big house--but if they were in the snow near a snowman then that was part of the joyous image. Santa would descend and have his milk and cake. He would leave soot on the ground. Gifts would arrive and all the mystery was not for us to resolve. What did logic have to have with fantasy?


Of course, the point arrived when we would stop believing; for some that came abruptly when a a so-called friend broke the news that Santa was not real. Usually, it was because they had seen their father dressing up as Santa. Or they had seen their parents sneaking to put presents under a tree and then scamper back to bed. Once the spell was broken it was just a matter of could one hold on to the myth for a little longer.


Not everyone grew up with the tradition of exchanging gifts. Often, in poor countries, it was a major effort to put something special on the dining table for Christmas Day. Thankfully, the joys of home cooking did most of what was needed as the fruits that had been soaking in wine or rum all year were given the chance to bless our palettes as slices of delicious cake. Or, we would get the taste of a wonderfully baked and glazed ham. But, it could also just have been a chicken and having more than just a slice or a wing. I wont pretend to not having confused my cultures, having lived in the UK from a young age. So, things like stuffing seem to have been part of Christmas for ever. So too was a real Christmas pudding--sticky, dark and richly-filled with fruit--and mince pies dusted with icing sugar. I know that these things are part of the Caribbean Christmas as many older people produce them in quantity each year, using recipes handed down over the decades.


Then, we had the drinks. For my family, it was always sorrel and ginger, and I remember so well my mother cleaning the sorrel bush, with the twigs falling around her legs. We children never got the full flavour as our sorrel contained no alcohol, but it was still a great drink, with its redness seeming to be so much a part of Christmas. (You can imagine my heartbreak when this week the arrivals from Jamaica had their sorrel and ginger taken away by Customs officials.) Later, things like egg nog came on the scene. At some places, it was also the time for sherry.


Yet, while the excitement of presents arriving for Christmas was very real, it was for me about present that came from nowhere: they were magically summoned each year. I still find it hard to accept that you have to go to shop and buy presents. I hold onto the myth that Santa does play a part. When I watch the scurrying to buy and wrap I still wonder at what I see. I know that the notion of giving has more than one time and place so find the frenzy in December more than a little odd. It has no impulsiveness, but has a lot of compulsiveness. But, I am no longer a child so know that from my eyes I cannot really see right. I just look at my littlest child, as presents pile under the tree and she tries to guess what they are. She, at six, clearly knows that Santa only does a part of the giving. Does she prize his gifts more? Hard to say.


Now that most of the children are asleep and having that last dream before the sound of reindeer hoofs pound the roof, I hope that I can go back and imagine Christmas as a child and see its sparkle again.

Whether the sparkle is really a glorious light, or just a dull flicker, I will hope that it is bright enough to shine on the eyes of any children you see and show that they are having a wonderful Christmas time.

Wishing everyone a very merry Christmas.

Hey, Santa, Where's Your Reindeer?

Caller: Hello, Mr. Jones?
Blogger: Yes.
Caller: This is the Living Waters Community. Could you help us and be Santa for a weekend?
Blogger: Of course. When?
Caller: Next Saturday and Sunday.

So it began. A call to help with 'Christ in Christmas', to be held at the Lloyd Erskine Sandiford Centre. I had only a few days to put on 30 pounds. I had anticipated such a need but was going to have problems as I had a few tennis games scheduled. I did not want to put the weight on with beer, though it was tempting. I gave up and told myself that I would have to be myself. I need not have feared. All was ready for me as I arrived for my first evening session. Santa costume? Sure: pure polyester. Santa boots? Check. Slip on plastic leggings. Santa hair? Yes. Fluffy white nylon. Santa beard? Of course, and all the hairs gravitate into your mouth so do not try to eat and drink with it on. Santa gloves? Check. Belt? Yep. Hat with bobble? Betcha!

I did my first stint on Saturday evening and another at noon on Sunday. If I had thought it was hot inside all that synthetic material, I had no idea it would be SO hot. I felt sweat rolling down my chest from the moment I put on my suit. One I packed on my 'stomach' (not duck down pillow), I was a waddling duck, for true. Down the stairs I went, like at a ball, bell ringing and "Ho, ho, ho," rolling off my tongue. Children looked up and smiled, or ran for cover. Once I was in my 'grotto', the flow of children and parents wanting to talk to Santa moved steadily. All the parents seemed to think that putting on a broad grin would make their child smile and if that did not work then putting up rabbit ear fingers would do the trick. Wrong! I told a few of them to just take a stroll and leave the kids to play with my bell; they usually made themselves happy and smiled naturally.

A few adults kept on walking past, looking longingly at my beard. Those who dared to speak made clear that they were looking for something from Santa: "You have an envelope for me?" one lady asked. She was not put off by no several times and gave me a story about how the recession had been hard. Children, of course, wanted to get into Santa's good books. They asked where I lived and how I would know their houses. Some wanted to check that I was real and would not be happy till they had a pull on my beard. "Ouch!" I yelled, and that seemed to stall them. Some wanted to be sure that I was not suffering and offered to get me some of the samples on offer: baked ham, black cake, even a cappuccino. As I mentioned, though, eating with nylon beard dressing is not fun. I could listen to the parang music without problems but had to resist ringing my bell at the same time.

But, the children who spoke to Santa or had their pictures taken with him (with or without their parents) were all happy. The little ones with cats painted on their faces were not worried when Santa offered to take them to the North Pole to help make gifts, and held my hand and headed for my sleigh. You have to love the trusting mind of a child and their capacity for belief in people who seem good and kind.

The pictures of Santa and his friends will be posted shortly on the Barbados Island Photos site.

Aunt Rema's Burial

Jamaican funerals in rural areas are not unique, but they seem to happen less frequently in other countries in the region, and in the urban areas of Jamaica are being 'outlawed' in their traditional form. That tradition calls for the burial to be done on your own land. But government wants people to use designated burial grounds. I am not going to enter into that debate. But it has its parallels in attempts to stop people giving birth at home and insisting that this only occur in hospitals.

As I joined my maternal family in their piece of St. Elizabeth that we now call ours--it was not always so as we were moved by bauxite companies so that the national good could be served--I relished the fact that the tradition is still firmly rooted. It makes a burial very special and the love that people have of a departed person seems so much stronger and sincere when almost everything takes place around that person's previous home.

I was surprised how few people cried for my aunt, but then again the nature of the burial has so much to do with a real passage to better things that tears of regret are not so common. We are going on to where we are destined to go. We are upset to lose our family and friends and when my six year old asked me what happens after the body goes into the ground,it's hard to hold back the lump forming in my throat. But it stayed small. I don't have a problem crying and I sobbed a little as the last shovels of concrete were put onto the tomb. I walked away at that point of finality and knew that I would see my aunt no more. I had to go back to the grave later, to see it calmly,free from people and noise and then I could have my true moment of grief, and I shed not one tear.



But, now I have tears inside for the living persons whom I have to see go away. Those cousins, aunts, uncles, who have known me for years and those cousins whom I had never seen before, are now again going back to their lives--mainly in Jamaica--and we may not meet again till another funeral. We do not celebrate births in the same way. Some I will stay in touch with as we have done the modern thing and exchanged phone numbers, e-mail addresses, Facebook account details, BlackBerry messenger contacts. We are all know to each other already as our names have been passed around for years by our parents and other relatives. I saw so many people who knew me but who I did not know or recognize. I met a man who seemed related to me but we were both unsure how, except that his family and mine come from around a place named Nain.

I was also thrilled to see one of my uncles, who is hailed by the nickname "Teacher", because he is and now was, and he has taken his school from little no-count to little but talawah. One of his pupils was a 10 year-old niece and as she talked to me, she showed what kind of Principal he had been. As soon as I sensed a hint (it was really small) of disrespect for an adult, and called her over, she said "Yes, sir." My guard dropped and I said that we did not need to discuss the matter because she clearly knew what to do normally. I heard stories of how the school yard clears if he now visits again: No one wants to incur his 'wrath' or see his discipline in action. It was on display in organizing the burial and the food after the funeral: "Do not send out any more food. Just follow instructions! Everyone who comes MUST eat. Hear me?" There was a collectively unspoken "Yes, Teacher."

Personalities were less in evidence on the day of the funeral, but food was as big a part as ever. No loud music was needed to lift spirits and no spirits were needed to lift bodies.God was doing all the lifting needed. We wrapped our bodies around more cups of manish water. We folded our stomach around lovely boxes of curried goat and rice. We licked our fingers after eating more fried chicken and rice and peas.

One of my cousins, had had plans for after the funeral church service that involved his going to watch his old high school play football and then a 'lunch' instead of going to the burial. I could not understand how the football stayed on the agenda. That's between him and his aunt. But, it did make me ponder how we set priorities. The team won. Would have won without him watching too. I hope the football team are there in good numbers for him when the day comes--they probably will be. I know that they play several games each month. The 'lunch' never happened. Those of us who stayed for the internment ate heartily. We even went to see some sick relatives afterwards to share with them the pictures and videos that I had. There will only be one funeral for this aunt.

One of my tenets is to do in daylight what has to be done with light, other things can be done at night.

Bob Marley had the right take on many things:

Forget your troubles and dance,
Forget your sorrows and dance,
Forget your sickness and dance,
Forget your weakness and dance

Wonderful World. Beautiful People.

The world is a wonderfully odd place.

Yesterday, Muslim neighbours celebrated Tabaski ('Eid al-Adha')--the feast of the lamb, which commemorates when Abraham offered his son, Ishmael, as a sacrifice and act of obedience to God; God in his turn provided a lamb instead for the sacrifice. (While Muslims regard Ishmael as a prophet, in Judaism and Christianity, he has a much lesser, uncelebrated standing.) The tradition as we experienced it in Guinea is for the lamb (or goat) to be shared out with family, friends (Muslims or non-Muslims), as well as the poor members of the community. I am not sure which of the categories we fit here in Bim, though we are at least "members of the community".

The family concerned has only ever had one direct contact with us in the 18 months we have lived 1 house apart, that was when one of the daughters tried to do some fund raising for her Islamic school. So, I was not quite with it when the bell rang and a girl's voice uttered that she had a gift for me. "Who is this?" I asked. "Fat(i)ma," came the reply. I went to the gate and there were all the women of the family, some in yashmaks. I don't recall there being a special role for women in the distribution. Fatma handed me a plastic bag, and as I took it I knew that this "gift" had not been bought from any shop, as my hands realised the cool, soft sensation of flesh. I thanked her and her family, and uttered "Shukran" (Arabic for thanks); they looked back in surprise. I peeked inside the bag as soon as I closed the gate, and went to give it to my housekeeper.

In Guinea, the tradition during Tabaski was to celebrate the sharing by having a meal of roast lamb, prepared on a spit. In north and west Africa, the tradition has been to eat mechoui (whole roast lamb) with cous-cous;it's a north African tradition that has migrated. We were lucky enough to have several Muslim friends who invited us for this truly delicious meal. I also had the good luck to have it in a more traditional setting, under a tent in the desert, when I worked in Mauritania. There you have the extra sensational rocket of Mauritanian tea (minty, hot and sweet, and you have to have three servings).

Obviously, with only a part of the lamb, we cannot have mechoui here in Barbados, but we could roast it nicely and prepare the cous-cous.