Christmas Remembered

To be able to tell you about my most memorable Christmas I need to give you just a tad of family background. -----

I had the dubious fortune (or misfortune – depending on interpretation) of being the lastborn child in a family of practical jokers – said family comprising parents of English and Irish descent, and two brothers 6 and 8 years old. My mother was a gently raised English girl from a family of mostly girls whereas my father was of pure Irish descent from a family of mostly boys – all rambunctious. Into this family came a girl-child – enough said!

The Christmas I remember the most was the one just before I turned 7 (my birthday occurs 2 weeks after Christmas) and for the first time I had been allowed to go on the trip to get the Christmas Tree. My oldest brother had joined the railway and would not be home till Christmas Eve, so I was needed to hold the horse and stop her wandering away before the tree was felled and loaded. There was no neat little pine tree for this family – we were Australian, so the tree had to be Australian too. Consequently the chosen victim was a good solid gum sucker about 10 feet high and with nice thick foliage for the decorations. It was felled, trimmed and loaded on the slide for Bonnie to bring home. I got the position of honour, perched high on Bonnie’s broad back for the long walk home – my father and other brother each riding their own horses.

Once home the tree was firmly placed in an old cream can with a heap of rocks to keep it upright and took up its new abode in the corner of the big lounge room where the top nestled firmly against the ceiling, helping it stay upright. Decorations were applied, the can wrapped in Christmas paper to hide the rust, and Christmas preparations got under way.

My ride home on Bonnie had started the germ of an idea in my brain and I announced to one and all that, since we were just dairy farmers and didn’t have enough money to buy a pony especially for me (the reason always given by my parents), I would go over their heads and ask Santa Claus for one. Pencil and paper in hand I sat myself down and composed my letter telling Santa how wonderfully well behaved I had been all year, how hard I had studied at school and how very much I wanted my own pony that I would not have to share with my brothers. I put it in the mail box down at our gate for the mailman and confidently made preparations for the pony that I knew would be mine in 2 days time.

Christmas Eve took forever to arrive, but when it did we collected my oldest brother from the railway station, and finalised Christmas arrangements. I was in bed by 7 o’clock that night, eyes squeezed shut so Santa would know I was trying not to look for him. A carrot for the reindeer, biscuit and a drink for Santa sat on a little table by the foot of my bed, along with a big chaff bag that my father said would be needed for the pony.

I was awake bright and early next morning, flew out of bed and woke my parents and brothers for the milking because all chores had to be done before present investigating could begin. Then I realised that, with my new pony, I could go get the cows to save time.

The big chaff bag was still at the foot of my bed, but all that I found in it was some horse poo, and there was a small trail of poo out across the verandah – obviously Santa had brought my pony, but it had escaped. I had to find it, so off I went – bubbling over with excitement – but not a sign of the pony could I find. I was heartbroken and returned to my bed crying because my pony had run away.

Christmas day was ruined for me and my misery took the shine off it for everyone else. Every time I looked at the chaff bag I burst out again until finally one of my brothers said he wanted to tell me something. He was immediately hauled outside by my mother and furious whispering took place. The same happened with my other brother and my father. I don’t remember seeing my mother look quite so ferocious before or since, but they were very subdued for the rest of the day.

Finally, my misery got the better of my mother as well, and she let me in on the secret. It was not Santa who left the horse poo in the bag – Santa would only bring toy type presents, never anything alive because of the mess it would make in his sleigh – it was a practical joke played by my father and brothers. Once this was explained to me and I was sworn to secrecy, my mother hatched her own evil plan.

My mother’s plan involved the guilt trip of all guilt trips. Knowledge dried up my tears, and since I couldn’t turn them on at will, I developed the art of lip trembling and looking sad (something children are very good at doing). I brought out all my horse books and lip-trembled my way through them, throwing in the odd sniffle and voice break for good measure. My mother smothered me with sympathy in my apparent heartbreak and glared at the family men, who dropped their eyes and left the room.

Over the next two weeks I appeared inconsolable over the loss of my Santa pony – my mother oozing sympathy every time my lip trembled or my voice broke. (Oscar award winning performances every time from both of us).

Gradually things settled back into normal routine – I got wonderful birthday gifts from my brothers which helped soothe my wounded little heart, and I was included in everything they did with their horses to make up for the “one that ran away”.

Over the next couple of years I appeared to forget that pony, just getting a bit morose each Christmas as I recalled the time Santa made a mistake.

Then a drought settled over the district and while one brother worked away in the railways, the other stayed on the farm and he and another farming son set off with a herd of the district’s dry cows and yearlings to drove them to a tract of public land down near Tin Can Bay where there were also a couple of mobs of brumbies. While they were there, Dan managed to capture a brumby foal – a blue roan little chap that he brought home and presented to me. Velvet (named for the softness of the nose he thrust into the side of my neck) became my pride and joy. When he had grown enough my brother helped me break and train him and that was when Dan finally found out how my mother and I had conned them for all those years over the practical joke they played on me.

Christmas was fun back then because it was good family fun and everybody got involved. Today, I find it a bit sad that the children ask for, and receive, electronic toys and games and then go off into their own little worlds to play their solitary games. The days of the backyard cricket games seem to be gone unfortunately and I think that society and the world are the poorer for it. Technology, while making life easier, has also been instrumental to a certain extent in splintering family groups, and the sheer commercialism of Christmas has turned the celebration of a special birthday into a grab-fest of bigger and better “I want's".

Memories are wonderful and my brothers and I now often laugh about my bag of horse poo and the subsequent way my gentle little mother made it backfire on the wild Irish rogues.