Marion’s Memories Family traditions at Christmas time
Many readers will remember Marion Webb as a regular contributor to BT in years past. Here she recalls a few Bristol Christmases from the past
DEAR Friends, I hope you still remember me and my column Marion’s Memories.
Today I share more memories with you. At 88 years of age I have experienced many Christmases although truthfully, I cannot remember much about the first couple!
But Christmas before the Second World War was always so enjoyable and planned for months beforehand – Mum’s home-made Christmas puddings (well stirred), homemade paper chains stuck together by me and elder sister Joan were our few decorations.
By Christmas Eve Granfer would have killed and plucked our Christmas fowl – a bird I knew intimately because I fed all Gran’s chickens every day …
… But there was no room for sentiment in those days! In fact, if I didn’t eat what was put in front of me, then I would have gone without!
Beside that Christmas dinner smelt too good and ‘afters’ would be Christmas pudding with custard and then Mum and Gran washed up (naturally!).
For me, Christmas began when our Dad came home on Christmas Eve, quite late, with any fruit and veg left on his barrow after a busy day.
Christmas Day began with exploring my Christmas stockingmaybe some gold chocolate coins, usually consumed whilst still in
bed, perhaps a sugar mouse, satsuma, and some crayons.
Then downstairs to open our ONE present. Dad always brought home plenty of chestnuts – my favourite – and even now I only have to hear “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire” and I am straight back in that happy, secure, loving home where I grew up.
Supper would be eaten about seven o’clock; home-cooked ham with Gran’s pickled onions and if, after two helpings of Mum’s stuffing, and a couple of pickled onions, there was a wee bit of flatulence – the men obviously – Dad’s Woodbines and Granfer’s Golden Virginia took care of that!
In time I married my beloved first husband, George, and we had our own family and as our children grew, so did our own traditions. On Christmas Eve we would put out Santa’s carrot and a (homemade) mince pie and George would carefully sprinkle glitter in our hall and leave a big footprint so there was no doubt Santa had been.
Actually I think Chris and Julie twigged long before they admitted it – they just didn’t want to take away Dad’s fun.
As the kids grew older it seemed to me, and George, the music they liked grew louder but when we sat
down to our Christmas dinner – roast turkey now, with all the trimmings – George always insisted on playing White Christmas by Bing Crosby – the all-time popular Christmas song I believe.
Mind you, when the children were small, the last thing we ever wanted was snow! With new trikes and scooters to try out, and learn to ride, good weather was much hoped for.
And yet do you remember the big freeze of 1963? When we woke up to a white world on Boxing Day my talented husband knocked up a wooden sleigh … which of course I had to pull.
Warmly dressed and snuggled in a blanket, our children had a whale of a time seeing me slip and slide.
With the responsibility of producing Christmas dinner I never ‘partook’ of the Christmas spirit before lunch, since on one occasion, after I had dished up Christmas dinner, I nearly poured my rich gravy over the Christmas table cloth instead of the dinner. Ah, well, good times.
What sort of Christmas will I have this year? I will let you know in January!
Finally, please may I share this Christmas message from my friend, Kerry McCarthy, MP:
“This year has presented unprecedented challenges for the Domestic Abuse section prompting a huge demand for help. Thanks to Refuge for their vital work supporting victims. Kerry.”
Personally, I have found the appeals for charities this year more numerous and heart breaking before but please do send a donation to Refuge.org.uk if you possibly can-however small. Refuge workers will be so grateful and so shall Kerry and me.
For now, dear friends, I wish you all a Happy Christmas. Stay safe, God bless, and lots of love,