Sacrifices

As a 79-year-old man, I have a tendency to look back into the past.

Many Christmases have come and gone, but the one I remember is the Christmas of 1945.

The Second World War had just finished and the soldiers had returned from the war zones.

My family lived on the out skirts of a town in Queensland, Australia, and were struggling to exist. Ration cards were still in force and food was scarce.

I remember my father left the house early in the morning and was absent for four hours.

When I asked my mother where he was, she informed me that he had gone to the store to get something for Christmas. I was not concerned as I was seven years of age.

When he returned, my mother said it was time to open our Christmas gifts.

My gift that year was a glass cup and saucer filled with popcorn. My brother and two sisters received similar gifts. I can still taste that popcorn.

My mother set the dinner table and I finally discovered where my dad had disappeared to earlier in the day.

Our Christmas dinner consisted of a loaf of fresh bread that my father had walked three miles to purchase.

The taste of fresh bread and golden syrup was like manna from heaven.

Though many Christmases have come and gone, it is that Christmas I remember, and it is mainly because of the sacrifices my parents made to ensure that the family did not miss out on the festive season.

Trevor N. Kelly Victoria