Oh, Christmas Tree!
December 2003
We stride, six of us, across the school paddock. My brother, John, leads the way, brandishing dad’s old crosscut saw, Spear & Jackson flashing in the summer sun. In defile we march, in order of age: John, Betty, then me (the lucky third), Mary, Jany and Robyn. John is fourteen, Robyn just three. We seek a Christmas tree, and announce our quest to the world -
‘Oh, Christmas tree! Oh, Christmas tree!
How merry are your branches.’
This is sung to the tune of ‘Oh, Tannenbaum’. It is the only line of the song we know, so we sing it over and over as we walk, a rallying cry that might set any young pine tree quivering with anxiety. Our weapons are various: the crosscut saw; a blunt axe. Mary waves an old tomahawk. Jany carries pruning shears. Robyn labours at the back of the line - ‘Oh, Tristris tree! Oh, Tristris tree!’ - in her three year old’s piping voice.
We slip through a wire fence, across the grounds of the maternity home and into a thistle paddock that is Roy Campbell’s farm. Our song dies as we approach the group of gnarly old pines, weathered by years of southerly gales that whip in over Foveaux Strait or sweep down from the Fiordland mountains. We’re not quite sure that we’re allowed to be here, and this faint premonition that we may be trespassing fuels our excitement. We prowl around the line of trees, gazing up, seeking out the perfect branch. There is much discussion and argument.
‘That one’s good cos it’s bushy.’
‘No it’s not. Look at the big gap half way up.’
‘This one! It’s got cones!’
‘Too high.’
Round and round, like Pooh and Piglet tracking the Heffalump.
Eventually we agree on a suitable branch, a noble and heavily-fronded branch that is far and away, we tell each other, the best on the trees. As always, we send John up with the saw. He climbs expertly, and then eases himself out along the branch, which bends gracefully towards the watchers on the ground, as if in homage to us, its nemesis.
‘Don’t saw on the side closest to the trunk!’ That’s Betty, reminding us of a previous, less successful, Christmas tree hunt. It sets Mary and Jany giggling and shouting. Robyn joins in, until John shuts them up with a growl from the tree.
He saws. The branch bends, cracks and settles to the ground with a sigh. We whoop with delight and rush to inspect our prize. On the ground, however, this branch looks a poor thing: too bushy at the base - too thin up top. We abandon it and resume our search. After we’ve repeated this scene three or four times, and branches lie like corpses, we return to the first one, decide it isn’t so bad after all – ‘nothing we can’t fix up with a few extra bits’, says John – and lift it up for the return journey.
Anybody watching from the windows of the maternity home would have observed a strange sight: a large pine tree branch wandering erratically across the school ground, propelled by six pairs of gumboots, and singing ‘Oh, Christmas tree!’ in a muffled, discordant voice.
Within the moving tree my face is pricked by pine needles, my nose itchy with pollen. Mary sneezes loudly behind me. I am giddy with the scent of pine and the warm, enveloping crush of the branch. My whole world is in this Christmas tree, with my brother and my sisters.
Robyn, encumbered with axe and saw, begins to wail. We stop and Betty picks her up, balances her on one hip while continuing to support the branch on her shoulder. We set off again, Robyn gripping a twig, beaming through her tears.
We cast our prize on the back lawn and, clamouring with the elation of the hunt, troop inside to tell mum. She surveys our tree with a practiced eye. We wait expectantly, breathless, for her judgement. Eventually she nods, declares that, with a bit of trimming here, and some extra foliage there, it will make a good tree. We cheer. John is sent off to the henhouse for the cream can to prop the tree in.
Later, in the evening, we unwrap the nativity set, one of mum’s prized possessions, brought from Holland years before. The tree, glittering with lights and decorations, seems to bend down to embrace the cardboard cave in which Mary, Joseph, the ox and ass, the baby, are tenderly displayed. Tim, the cat, delicately picks his way through the figurines and curls around the manger, one of our Christmas rituals that brings smiles and giggles from the younger kids.
I sit in front of the tree, giddy with excitement, and gaze into its branches. I am filled with wonder.
Thirty-five years later, as I reflect on Christmas as a child, these are the memories that spring to mind. I recall almost nothing about presents, food, visitors or parties. To me, the spirit of Christmas is a child gazing into the branches of a tree, gazing beyond the lights and decorations, into the folds and shadows of the pine needles, and discovering there, with wonder and delight, the life and hope, peace and re-birth that is the Christmas message. As an adult, the echo of that child still sends a thrill through me.
I wish you a Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Who Killed Tulkinghorn?
26th December 2008
Whether the leitmotif is Christian or commercial most human behaviour at Christmas boils down to tradition. We strive, year in and year out, to recreate the festive season in a form that is familiar and satisfying. Although I consider myself adaptable, even adventurous at times, a diary of my Christmas week reveals the extent to which I am enthralled by custom.
Sunday 21st December.
Arriving at the point in the year when we can finally relax Sylvia and I are reluctant to engage with the hype of Christmas. Our response is to disappear into a good story. A visit to the Ashburton library unearths a BBC costume drama, Charles Dickens’ Bleak House in 15 episodes. We settle down for an evening of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce, fuelled by a batch of Sylvia’s famous rumballs drenched in cointreau. Within minutes we are lost in Victorian London among lawyers, ladies and litigation.
Monday 22nd December.
I have no pretensions as a pastrycook but years ago I picked up the habit of baking Christmas mince pies, small pastry delights that have become a fixture of our festivities. I spend the morning with rolling pin and cookie cutter. For a few hours fruit mince is, literally, my raisin d’etre and by lunchtime six dozen mince pies are cooling on the bench.
After lunch I venture out to the shops in a departure from the tradition of doing all my Christmas shopping at 5pm on the 24th. I buy jewellery for Sylvia, gardening tools for Marjan and aviator sunglasses for Corrie. In the evening we return to Bleak House where Krook spontaneously combusts, Esther’s hopes for happiness are dashed by smallpox and somebody drills a bullet through the black heart of Tulkinghorn the villainous lawyer.
Tuesday 23rd December.
Continuing to distance ourselves from festive frenzy we indulge another family tradition – the pre-Christmas tramping trip. Over the years we have polished this up as a highlight of our holidays. Usually we venture no further than the Mt Somers walkway but on this occasion we drive to Arthur’s Pass where Marjan is waitressing at a luxury tourist lodge. Her roster gives her a couple of days break and she joins us for a short tramp into the Edwards valley.
Marjan is reliably unpredictable. Halfway up the valley she remarks, “I’ve noticed your smell has changed. No offence or anything, but you’re starting to smell like an old man.”
I’m taken aback. Of all the signs of approaching decrepitude I never expected it would be my smell that undid me.
We climb towards the Edwards hut through meadows of shining snow grass and Mt Cook buttercups. Under a bright blue sky we debate the identity of Tulkinghorn’s murderer. Sergeant George is clearly the prime suspect but we agree that he is too obvious. Lady Dedlock has motive. Then again, it could be Guppy the striving law clerk or Hortense the estranged maid. We agree that Hortense is the most likely killer - she is French, after all.
Wednesday 24th December.
Christmas Eve. We rise early and head back down the valley. The Bealey river is thigh deep as we approach the car park and we walk the last few hundred metres through a blanket of purple lupins. We return Marjan to the tourist lodge where she opens her Christmas presents. In another departure from tradition she will not be with us on Christmas day and I feel saddened by this. There are moments when the journey of parenthood still throws up surprises.
We return to Ashburton and a flurry of wrapping paper and trifle. Corrie joins us from her job at the berry farm, we pack the car and turn towards Christchurch and the customary gathering of my family at my mum’s place.
Later in the evening I disentangle myself from nephews and nieces and accompany mum to midnight mass. Father Miles, the parish priest, is as confidential as a butler. From his lips the message of Christ’s birth reassures me just as it did when I was 10 years old. I stifle a yawn – it’s been a long day – and lose myself in the familiarity of it all.
The congregation clanks into Silent Night and Christmas slowly rumbles into view like a coal train emerging from the Otira tunnel. I wonder whether the small traditions I pursue so resolutely have any basis in reality or whether each festive season adds another ring in a slowly growing tree of fantasy. It’s Christmas - and I still don’t know who killed Tulkinghorn.
26th December 2008
Whether the leitmotif is Christian or commercial most human behaviour at Christmas boils down to tradition. We strive, year in and year out, to recreate the festive season in a form that is familiar and satisfying. Although I consider myself adaptable, even adventurous at times, a diary of my Christmas week reveals the extent to which I am enthralled by custom.
Sunday 21st December.
Arriving at the point in the year when we can finally relax Sylvia and I are reluctant to engage with the hype of Christmas. Our response is to disappear into a good story. A visit to the Ashburton library unearths a BBC costume drama, Charles Dickens’ Bleak House in 15 episodes. We settle down for an evening of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce, fuelled by a batch of Sylvia’s famous rumballs drenched in cointreau. Within minutes we are lost in Victorian London among lawyers, ladies and litigation.
Monday 22nd December.
I have no pretensions as a pastrycook but years ago I picked up the habit of baking Christmas mince pies, small pastry delights that have become a fixture of our festivities. I spend the morning with rolling pin and cookie cutter. For a few hours fruit mince is, literally, my raisin d’etre and by lunchtime six dozen mince pies are cooling on the bench.
After lunch I venture out to the shops in a departure from the tradition of doing all my Christmas shopping at 5pm on the 24th. I buy jewellery for Sylvia, gardening tools for Marjan and aviator sunglasses for Corrie. In the evening we return to Bleak House where Krook spontaneously combusts, Esther’s hopes for happiness are dashed by smallpox and somebody drills a bullet through the black heart of Tulkinghorn the villainous lawyer.
Tuesday 23rd December.
Continuing to distance ourselves from festive frenzy we indulge another family tradition – the pre-Christmas tramping trip. Over the years we have polished this up as a highlight of our holidays. Usually we venture no further than the Mt Somers walkway but on this occasion we drive to Arthur’s Pass where Marjan is waitressing at a luxury tourist lodge. Her roster gives her a couple of days break and she joins us for a short tramp into the Edwards valley.
Marjan is reliably unpredictable. Halfway up the valley she remarks, “I’ve noticed your smell has changed. No offence or anything, but you’re starting to smell like an old man.”
I’m taken aback. Of all the signs of approaching decrepitude I never expected it would be my smell that undid me.
We climb towards the Edwards hut through meadows of shining snow grass and Mt Cook buttercups. Under a bright blue sky we debate the identity of Tulkinghorn’s murderer. Sergeant George is clearly the prime suspect but we agree that he is too obvious. Lady Dedlock has motive. Then again, it could be Guppy the striving law clerk or Hortense the estranged maid. We agree that Hortense is the most likely killer - she is French, after all.
Wednesday 24th December.
Christmas Eve. We rise early and head back down the valley. The Bealey river is thigh deep as we approach the car park and we walk the last few hundred metres through a blanket of purple lupins. We return Marjan to the tourist lodge where she opens her Christmas presents. In another departure from tradition she will not be with us on Christmas day and I feel saddened by this. There are moments when the journey of parenthood still throws up surprises.
We return to Ashburton and a flurry of wrapping paper and trifle. Corrie joins us from her job at the berry farm, we pack the car and turn towards Christchurch and the customary gathering of my family at my mum’s place.
Later in the evening I disentangle myself from nephews and nieces and accompany mum to midnight mass. Father Miles, the parish priest, is as confidential as a butler. From his lips the message of Christ’s birth reassures me just as it did when I was 10 years old. I stifle a yawn – it’s been a long day – and lose myself in the familiarity of it all.
The congregation clanks into Silent Night and Christmas slowly rumbles into view like a coal train emerging from the Otira tunnel. I wonder whether the small traditions I pursue so resolutely have any basis in reality or whether each festive season adds another ring in a slowly growing tree of fantasy. It’s Christmas - and I still don’t know who killed Tulkinghorn.
Henry Plays God
2006/2008
Henry is no angel. He happily admits he’s not the teacher’s pet. He and his best friend Nathan, with the perfect logic of seven year olds, rate themselves as ‘the fourth or fifth worst boys’ in their Year 2 class.
So it came as a surprise to Henry when Mrs McMurtrie told him he would be God in the Christmas nativity play. She announced it to the whole class, which was hard for Henry. He quickly checked the reactions of his friends, and of the boys he would like to be his friends. Did they approve? He thought about saying ‘no’, but you don’t say ‘no’ to Mrs McMurtrie.
Henry felt proud, and scared. God had a big part in the play. It was God who had to command the star to guide the Wise Men to Bethlehem, choose the animals to share Jesus’ stable and the shepherds to do the adoring. He hoped Nathan would get the part of the sensible star, the one Mrs McMurtrie said God would choose to do the guiding. But Nathan became the giraffe instead, and didn’t even get to share the stable because his neck was too long to fit through the door.
So tonight, in the week before Christmas, the junior school is performing the nativity and Henry plays God. He wears a gold cloak and sits on a big throne, from where he can see the whole audience. Even through the bright lights shining right in his eyes he can tell the hall is packed. He wonders where mum, dad and his little brother are. It is hot and his nose itches.
Mr Jones the principal stands on the second step and claps in the usual way to quieten everybody down. He says something and then vanishes. The music starts and everybody looks at Henry. Slowly he stands and begins to speak…
Henry is among thousands of young children throughout the country who, this week and next, are renewing one of the oldest and fondest Christmas traditions – the school concert. Raise your hand if you never took part in a school concert. Just as I thought…
Do you remember those Christmas concerts? Waiting excitedly in the classroom until it was our turn to be marched to the hall through the twilight of a warm summer evening. Putting on cardboard masks, cowboy outfits or a pair of animal ears. Clutching a sword or a recorder. Standing at the side of the stage while teachers rushed about, moving wooden forms and ‘shushing’ everyone out of habit.
Then the performance. An animal pageant one year, a medley of Christmas songs the next, perhaps an original musical written by a talented beginning teacher or a play from the School Journal.
Most or our memories of school are quickly, blessedly, erased after we depart. Maths and spelling lessons are swiftly forgotten (though their outcomes, hopefully, linger). Good teachers and bad merge over time into a single darkening image. Classmates occasionally become life-long friends, but more often vanish into fragments: this one gave you a Chinese burn, that one shared a detention, the other kissed you behind the bikesheds – or did you just wish they had?
But often the memory of the Christmas concert endures. Even if we forget the details we recall the excitement that ran like a thread through rehearsals and performances, right to the moment when we snuggled into our beds late after the show, filled with jelly and ice cream, wrapped in warm words of praise from our parents and the promise of a half-day off tomorrow.
These memories remain powerful, I think, because they are memories of power. The concert is, for many a child, their first experience of being the centre of attention, of being in control. Standing on that stage, even if terrified, we instinctively sense we have the audience in our hands. For the duration of our performance we can make those grownups laugh or cheer or be silent. We can make them proud or disappointed. We can scatter their emotions this way and that, like straws in our hands.
At Christmas we celebrate the birth of a child who truly became the centre of attention. Christ exhorts us to seek our salvation in the example of children. Their innocence, zest for life and faith in their own essential goodness reminds us that we are divine and joyous beings.
Even Henry understands that we can never really play God. There is much in the world and even in our own lives over which we have no control. But at Christmas, when we celebrate a child’s birth, let’s remind ourselves that if we keep alive the child within us we may yet become the perfect creatures God intends us to be.
Happy Christmas.
2006/2008
Henry is no angel. He happily admits he’s not the teacher’s pet. He and his best friend Nathan, with the perfect logic of seven year olds, rate themselves as ‘the fourth or fifth worst boys’ in their Year 2 class.
So it came as a surprise to Henry when Mrs McMurtrie told him he would be God in the Christmas nativity play. She announced it to the whole class, which was hard for Henry. He quickly checked the reactions of his friends, and of the boys he would like to be his friends. Did they approve? He thought about saying ‘no’, but you don’t say ‘no’ to Mrs McMurtrie.
Henry felt proud, and scared. God had a big part in the play. It was God who had to command the star to guide the Wise Men to Bethlehem, choose the animals to share Jesus’ stable and the shepherds to do the adoring. He hoped Nathan would get the part of the sensible star, the one Mrs McMurtrie said God would choose to do the guiding. But Nathan became the giraffe instead, and didn’t even get to share the stable because his neck was too long to fit through the door.
So tonight, in the week before Christmas, the junior school is performing the nativity and Henry plays God. He wears a gold cloak and sits on a big throne, from where he can see the whole audience. Even through the bright lights shining right in his eyes he can tell the hall is packed. He wonders where mum, dad and his little brother are. It is hot and his nose itches.
Mr Jones the principal stands on the second step and claps in the usual way to quieten everybody down. He says something and then vanishes. The music starts and everybody looks at Henry. Slowly he stands and begins to speak…
Henry is among thousands of young children throughout the country who, this week and next, are renewing one of the oldest and fondest Christmas traditions – the school concert. Raise your hand if you never took part in a school concert. Just as I thought…
Do you remember those Christmas concerts? Waiting excitedly in the classroom until it was our turn to be marched to the hall through the twilight of a warm summer evening. Putting on cardboard masks, cowboy outfits or a pair of animal ears. Clutching a sword or a recorder. Standing at the side of the stage while teachers rushed about, moving wooden forms and ‘shushing’ everyone out of habit.
Then the performance. An animal pageant one year, a medley of Christmas songs the next, perhaps an original musical written by a talented beginning teacher or a play from the School Journal.
Most or our memories of school are quickly, blessedly, erased after we depart. Maths and spelling lessons are swiftly forgotten (though their outcomes, hopefully, linger). Good teachers and bad merge over time into a single darkening image. Classmates occasionally become life-long friends, but more often vanish into fragments: this one gave you a Chinese burn, that one shared a detention, the other kissed you behind the bikesheds – or did you just wish they had?
But often the memory of the Christmas concert endures. Even if we forget the details we recall the excitement that ran like a thread through rehearsals and performances, right to the moment when we snuggled into our beds late after the show, filled with jelly and ice cream, wrapped in warm words of praise from our parents and the promise of a half-day off tomorrow.
These memories remain powerful, I think, because they are memories of power. The concert is, for many a child, their first experience of being the centre of attention, of being in control. Standing on that stage, even if terrified, we instinctively sense we have the audience in our hands. For the duration of our performance we can make those grownups laugh or cheer or be silent. We can make them proud or disappointed. We can scatter their emotions this way and that, like straws in our hands.
At Christmas we celebrate the birth of a child who truly became the centre of attention. Christ exhorts us to seek our salvation in the example of children. Their innocence, zest for life and faith in their own essential goodness reminds us that we are divine and joyous beings.
Even Henry understands that we can never really play God. There is much in the world and even in our own lives over which we have no control. But at Christmas, when we celebrate a child’s birth, let’s remind ourselves that if we keep alive the child within us we may yet become the perfect creatures God intends us to be.
Happy Christmas.
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