In rural Jamaica, where I grew up seven decades ago, going to church was at the heart of Christmas in my family. In my memory the night was moonlit or bright with stars, the air warm and soft, as we walked home together after the midnight service on Christmas Eve. Sounds of merriment were distanced by the hilly country as our neighbours set off fireworks in celebration. I felt secure and satisfied because the preparations were over, the baking and preserving done, gifts of new clothing and food distributed to the poor, and our parents, who taught school and served in church and community, were at leisure at last. The feasting and visiting could now begin.
We walked to call on friends, since we had no car. We walked for miles, stopping on our visits to sample their Christmas cake and sorrel – the bright red drink made from the sorrel plant, spiced with root ginger and brown sugar, and laced with rum.
For entertainment, there were the street dancers – john cunnu we called them. Like the mummers of northern England, they were in disguise: one wore an ass' head, men wore skirts, and all had brightly coloured costumes and headdresses with beads and feathers. Everyone was prancing and twirling to the beat and sound of drums and pipes.
Once or twice our parents introduced the semblance of a Christmas tree – its branches bare of greenery, wrapped with foil to represent frost, and stuck with balls of cotton wool to mimic snow. There were no presents under the tree; there were no candles or ornaments. It was someone else's custom, and it was not a success. Why did they bother with a fake when the widespread branches of the live Poinciana tree flamed with blossom, the red-headed poinsettias made a hedge taller than a man, and citrus fruit ripened pale yellow against glossy dark green leaves?
Going to an Anglican boarding school enriched my experience of Christmas. In this culturally British community, set down in the hills of Jamaica, the students took part in plays and pageants, were introduced to flaming Christmas puddings with silver coins tucked inside, and, an enduring legacy for me, a wider range of Christmas music than the meagre fare of the church hymnal.
It was in England as a young adult that I began to make sense of traditional Christmas practices. The short dull days of winter, damp and bereft of either sunshine or snow, begged for lights and decorations, rich food and the hurry and anticipation of shopping.
It was there also, in my husband Graham's English family, that I was introduced to the ritual of extreme gift-giving. The families of aunts and uncles lived within a short distance of each other. There were some 15 cousins in all, each one expected to have a present for every family member. The gifts were small – England had barely emerged from the Second World War. A bar of soap or a packet of chocolate was dutifully wrapped, inscribed and added to the pile in front of the fireplace. We sat around while Grandpa handed out each gift: “To Aunty Mollie, from Sean,” and so on, he intoned. The gift was unwrapped, thanks and kisses exchanged, and the next gift was taken from the pile.
As the family numbers increased, the time spent and the tedium of opening gifts grew, until someone brave put a limit on the practice: gift giving would be kept within the nuclear family. When cousins got together they would celebrate in different ways. One year, I recall, we wrote and performed a charade about the family.
Here in Canada, well out of range of World Wars and rationing, I am struck by the extravagance of Christmas: generous gifts offered beyond the family circle, packaged with perfect wrappings; lavish decorations indoors and out; advertisements for shopping that begin in October; partying that lasts from November to New Year's Eve.
One of the Christmas songs I learned here in Canada begins: Where Is The Child? I take this question with me as I look toward Christmas this year in Jamaica. As I consider the pattern of my childhood, I look for what was central to the practices of our parents, and in so doing I come to my resolve: whatever we decide about feasting, gift-giving and celebrating, we, their descendants, and those gathered with us, will take time to worship the Christ Child together.
