A special Christmas poem from Jack Whyte

Iremember writing this time last year, about how much more quickly Christmas seems to come each year as we grow older, and here it is again, proving was right because it just seems like a few weeks ago that I wrote that particular piece.

“Tempus fugit” is how the ancient Romans described it: “time flies by,” so the acceleration was as true back then, when they called Christmas by the pagan name of Saturnalia, as it is now. The Roman celebration was much like ours, with festivities extending from Dec. 17 through Dec. 23.

The poet Catullus called Saturnalia “the best of days” because it featured festive dining, private gift-giving and continual partying — a time when people were known, and encouraged, to be aware of, and be generous to, others less privileged than themselves.

Described like that, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, isn’t it?

But it was Christmas BC, demonstrating yet again that nothing is new under the sun.

The truest, happiest Christmases, no matter who is thinking of them, seem to centre around our families and on sharing our blessings.

This week, I enjoyed, once again, the nostalgia that washes over me when the annual card arrives from my oldest friend in England. We don’t correspond much nowadays, other than a card with an enclosed letter at this time of year, but nothing has changed between us and I know that next time I actually see him, we’ll pick up our conversation from where we left it last time.

We’ve been friends now since I first met him in March, 1961. It was my birthday and he was singing in the folk club we went to that night, and we hit it off straight away. We sang together for years in England as The Heather Heathens and years later, we started a club of our own, Friday’s Folk, in Brighton, Sussex. He continued to run it for more than 20 years after I came to Canada, but the memories I have of it, and of our friendship, are as fresh today as they ever were.

Memories like that, of friendship and close families, old times and shared experiences, are, arguably, the largest part of what Christmas means to me.

As the firstborn of a large family, with 10 siblings, I was 18, already at university, when my youngest sister was born.

All of us were musical. We all sang and most played a variety of instruments. My Christmas memories, accordingly, are chaotic and filled with activities and upheaval, but always filled, too, with music and singing. Now, a generation and a half later, I’m the oldest living member of a thriving, fruitful, dozens-strong clan.

For 15 years, though, here in Canada, I produced a Christmas newspaper called A Whyte Christmas for family and friends, with a headlined feature article and photographs for each family member and special events. But the family all grew up and moved out, and I stopped.

One of the things I used to do each year, though, was to write a Christmas poem for the back page, wrapping up the year, and this one, which I hope you’ll enjoy, is from 1998.

The environment of Christmas, of the Season of Goodwill,

Is compounded of a mixture of ingredients, if you will,

Every one of which increases the excitement in the air

That surrounds us every Christmas, in our giving, in our prayer.

Some are easily identified: roast turkey; gingerbread;

Christmas cake and Christmas pudding; Christmas colours, green and red,

And the wafting from the oven of the scent of cookies baking,

And the glory of the Christmas tree — sheer pleasure, in the making.

There's the green scent of the pine boughs that make up the Christmas wreath,

And the stockings by the fireplace, and the treasures stacked beneath,

And the dancing of the fire’s light when, late on Christmas Eve,

Parents leave the room to Santa and the magic he will weave.

But our senses can’t account alone for all of our delight.

The impressions of this Season aren’t bound by smell, or sight.

They don’t all depend on taste, or touch, or hearing magic hoofs

Clatter through the streets at midnight, or go rattling on the roofs!

No, the Yuletide is a psychic thing that lives within us all;

It’s the season of rejoicing we’ve awaited since the Fall;

It’s a time for celebration; for forgiving, greeting friends;

Its the Family time; for cherishing; the making of amends.

It’s the time when thoughts stretch outward to our loved ones, far away,

As we wonder what they’re doing, where they’ll be this Christmas Day,

And our thoughts go now to each of you out there, beyond our sight:

May your Christmas Day be golden, and your New Year diamond bright!