by Ian Haysom
“Ooooh,” she’d say, “I met this poor woman yesterday, and she had nowhere to go for Christmas dinner. Can you imagine that? So I’ve invited her over.”
And a few others too.
Our kitchen table wasn’t big enough for more than four people, so Dad would take a door off by the hinges, place it on top of the smaller table and we’d sit in the middle of the living room and pull Christmas crackers and laugh and go “ooooh” at the Christmas pudding, when it was lit up with brandy.
If memory serves, we never did have turkey, but a large chicken full of stuffing and surrounded by sausages and bacon, and served with delicious roast potatoes and sprouts, which none of the kids liked that much, mostly because in those days cooking vegetables amounted to boiling them within an inch of their lives so that they became a mushy, watery, inedible slop. But we covered it all in gravy, and the kids were allowed to sip Babycham, a low-alcohol champagne perry (like cider but made with pears), and it was, well, spectacular. We wore our paper hats extracted from the Christmas crackers, and read our riddles—Why does Santa have three gardens? So he can hoe-hoe-hoe—and we played with our small compasses or key rings other cracker toys.
One year, on a whim, my mother decided we’d have a goose for Christmas, which was very daring and also quite posh for a working-class family. All morning she complained that while roasting it was making an awful lot of fat, and lunchtime—in England, most Christmas dinners are eaten at midday—the goose was cooked and proudly brought to the table. My father beamed as he took the carving knife and fork, inserted it into the bird ...
And sprayed all of us with goose fat, as it spurted for what seemed an eternity. We mopped our clothes, our faces, our hair, and started laughing our heads off.
“Bit fatty, that bird,” said Dad. “But it looks very moist.”
My mum was reassured it was the best bird ever (certainly the most memorable) and we loved every bite. The next year, we went back to chicken.
Now, Christmases are spent with kids and grandkids, and it’s still the most magical time of the year, and stressful and busy and, suddenly, it’s all over before it’s started. We’re fortunate if we have family to share it with. It’s a time to be kinder, less mean, less self-absorbed.
The Grandfather Clause
Here are some thoughts on Santa Claus that I once expounded in the Victoria Times Colonist.
Santa is sitting in our living room, dispensing gifts to neighbourhood children, and saying to a young boy, “So what do you want for Christmas, man?”
Man? This is Groovy Santa, who, if you look beneath the expensive red Santa suit, shiny black boots, white hair and beard, bears a striking resemblance to my eldest son, Tim.
Tim is a big lad, but a large pillow is still necessary for the required girth.
Groovy Santa is also Virgin Santa. This is a maiden performance. And an impressive one.
Not that Tim hasn’t been pressed into service at Christmas before. He played a shepherd in the kindergarten nativity scene, wearing a tea towel over his head, if memory serves.
He played trumpet in the middle-school band Christmas concert, and we puffed with pride until we discovered he wasn’t actually blowing into the instrument, but miming. “I was afraid I’d mess up ‘Good King Wenceslas,’” he confessed. “It’s really difficult.”
Every year, poor Tim has to do a Dickensian Tiny Tim and say, “God bless us everyone,” before Christmas dinner because it’s a tradition. He said it when he was really tiny and now Christmas isn’t Christmas without it. It’s kind of kitsch now, and he probably wishes we’d christened him Elvis or Garth, but he always delivers. And now we have him bellowing out a ho-ho-ho instead. The things parents ask.
The snow is falling softly outside the window, right on Christmas cue. My wife wanted to host a Breakfast with Santa, so here we are with the neighbours in our townhouse complex, and the kids are decorating homemade gingerbread men, playing party games, and receiving a visit from Santa himself.
Tom, who’s six, has told his parents that it won’t be the real Santa. Not here, not in our living room. But after he climbs down from Santa’s lap, he stops briefly, returns, and gives Santa a huge hug. Then returns to his parents and says, “He’s the real Santa. I can tell.”
Santa—the real Santa—has become the most politically incorrect character there is. An incongruous role model.
He’s way overweight, he smokes a corn-cob pipe, he produces his toys in a remote offshore location using cheap, vertically challenged labour, he sneaks into people’s houses in the middle of the night, little children happily sit on his knee even though they’ve been warned to beware of strangers, he drinks far too much Coca-Cola and he is in serious need of a haircut and shave.
What’s he doing living in the North Pole anyway? Doesn’t Mrs. Claus get bored up there? And cold? Isn’t it a tad too harsh and isolated? Shouldn’t Santa, who seems to be about 80 years old, be retired in Scottsdale or Florida? Do they play pinochle with the elves? Shuffleboard with the reindeer?
He may be giving up some of his vices. Almost two hundred years after Clement Moore gave us The Night Before Christmas, self-published Vancouver author Pamela McColl has excised the part where he has the stump of a pipe in his mouth and smoke encircles his head.
McColl says she wanted to update the book for the twenty-first century and remove the naughty part. I’d have kept the pipe and replaced the tobacco with medicinal marijuana.
Our modern-day Santa may be obese and merry and jolly—his cheeks like roses, his lips like a cherry—but as the writer David Sedaris observes, the European Saint Nicholas “is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy.” Santa has gone through updates and refinements over the centuries, and Coca-Cola in the 1930s gave us the version we have today.
But let’s not try to change the old fellow too much, even as we all change and become more cynical and knowing.
He is a wonderful constant. Kind, magical, benevolent, and a testament to innocence.
Children around the world love him. And trust him. And much too soon they discover that it’s not all magic and wonder out there.
The longer we can keep that innocence the better. Santa may not be perfect, may be increasingly politically incorrect (he even wears fur)—but let’s not rush to fix his bad habits.
Merry Christmas, man. And to all a good night.
Let’s talk about Santa, while we’re here. In some parts of the world he’s called Father Christmas, but he’s obviously Grandfather Christmas. Look at the state of him. He’s more than a little long in the tooth.
I mean, first, there’s the weight thing. Jolly old elf? The man isn’t just roly-poly; he’s full-on obese. What kind of message is that to send to our children and grandchildren, many of whom are also mega-fat because they’ve spent too much time sitting in front of the tablets, smart phones, and gaming consoles Santa brought them last Christmas?
Santa should start nibbling on the carrots left for his reindeer, rather than tucking into mince pies, cookies, sherry, and such as he circles the globe. It takes eight—eight!—reindeer to pull the fat old fellow around the planet. They must be well and truly knackered by the time they’ve made it to the West Coast of North America.
So, a membership to a health club, Santa. We need a low-fat Santa. Santa in spandex. Then again, I’ve always railed against spandex on men of a certain age. Like, over forty. There’s only so much body you can squeeze into activity-wear.
Then there’s the big, long, white beard thing. What’s he hiding under there? A multitude of chins? Nobody’s worn long, shaggy beards since George Bernard Shaw. Any self-respecting beard-wearer (of which I’m one) knows that well-trimmed goatees are de rigueur nowadays.
He could do the day-old stubble thing, but that’s a bit passé this week (you have to keep up).
/>
Also, a dab of Grecian Formula wouldn’t go awry. Santa might not have noticed, but old isn’t hip at the moment. Well, old’s hip, as long as you don’t look old. Santa is of indeterminate age, but he’s got to be the other side of eighty, and he doesn’t exactly brim with youthful vitality.
That said, he is working—albeit one day a year. No Freedom 55 for Santa. I like that.
Okay, let’s talk about the clothing. Not exactly GQ, is it, Santa? Santa, red is not the new black. Particularly white trim. Like, what kind of statement are you trying to make? Nobody, but nobody, wears red, except Team Canada (and a slew of other sports teams). And Santa, I can tell you’re not into sports.
Okay, let’s say you’ve never heard of Santa. You’re from the moon. You walk around 2020 North America, and everyone is dressed in pretty drab, fairly uniform clothing. A little Gap here, some Eddie Bauer there, some Lululemon everywhere, and a whole bunch of khaki and knitted sweaters.
Then, suddenly, you see this very old man with a long beard walking down the street in a baggy—and very loud—red suit. No doubt you’d think, well, this old fellow needs immediate medical attention. Or at least clothing advice. Of course, being a Martian, you might be dressed in the same outfit, but the point is Santa’s sartorially out of step.
Then there’s the ho-ho-ho thing. Okay, this is a little personal, Santa, but no one these days clutches their little round belly—that has started to shake like a bowlful of jelly—and then, in a booming voice, goes: “Ho, ho, ho.”
Look, Santa, this might be hard to take, but most of the world doesn’t laugh much these days, and when it does it’s with a restrained, almost cynical sneer. Irony is big. Sarcasm. Cruel humour. Not belly laughs.
And let’s talk about the smoking and all that pipe-smoke encircling your head as you go into people’s living rooms. First, you probably don’t know this, but smoking is now fast becoming a crime punishable by public flogging. Smoking in someone’s home—which you are apparently wont to do—will soon be a hanging offence.
And here’s another thing, Santa. Not many houses have chimneys anymore. We all have fake gas fireplaces that look like real fireplaces because, well, we’re idiots. So stop it with the clattering of tiny hooves on the roof already.
Plus, with property crime being what it is, are you sure you should still be sneaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night?
And stop it with the “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night” line—it’s “Happy holidays,” okay? Stop offending the non-Christians.
And finally, this stuff about making lists about who’s been naughty and who’s been nice, and then only rewarding the nice ones. Santa, what are you thinking? Those nasty kids are in need of help. We need to work with them. Not threaten them. You need to take a parenting course. Or a grandparenting course. This carrot-and-stick stuff is a little out of date. Plus, nice guys finish last. Trust me.
By next Christmas Eve, let’s see a trimmed-down, non-smoking, non-chuckling, goatee-wearing Santa in a charcoal grey suit. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Okay, maybe it doesn’t. But Santa, we’re just trying to help you fit into our ever-changing world.
Then again, he has given all grandfathers permission to be big and round and anti-social and concerned with making everyone around him very happy. And he has eyes that twinkle. So, yes, you’re our hero too.
Toys, Toys, Toys
Pow. Pow. Pzooooom. Pzeeeet.
“Ouch.”
My grandchildren cornered me in the dining room and were all shooting me with laser guns. I wasn’t sure how this game started with two teams of two and now it was three against one, but they were all standing in front of me, sending laser shots into the bullseye vest I was wearing.
“Not fair,” I pleaded.
“Ha ha ha,” they all replied enjoying their grandfather’s suffering.
This set of four laser tag guns and vests came from Costco, and it was Linden’s fourth birthday gift. He thought it was the best gift ever, though for some reason he thought he was supposed to bash me over the head with the rifle rather than staying ten paces away, as the house rules just established.
Now, I know this is a politically incorrect gift and is wrong on all kinds of levels, so shoot me. Every now and then, we fall short of our Boomer standards of peace and love and the whole thing because there’s some fun to be had. And laser tag? Isn’t that more Star Wars than Deadwood? And Star Wars is a Disney property now? Okay, best not to dwell. I’m uncomfortable defending myself.
When I was four years old, for my birthday, I received a Hopalong Cassidy cowboy set. It came with a hat, studded waistcoat, chaps, and a gun, and I was the envy of the street, where cowboy shootouts happened daily. We all had cap guns that were alarmingly loud.
Hopalong Cassidy was a movie and TV cowboy, played by William Boyd in the 1950s, and an unlikely hero for young kids. He was white-haired and wholesome and frankly looked more like a grandfather than a Clint Eastwood–style rugged cowboy. His drink of choice was sarsaparilla, a non-alcoholic tipple that never seemed to be available in postwar England. It sounded exotic and almost daring, even if the bad guys always laughed at Hopalong for favouring soft drinks rather than hard liquor.
My cowboy outfit had one flaw. The back of the waistcoat was made of tartan. After too briefly becoming the envy of the street, I was suddenly a figure of ridicule. Older kids started calling me McHopalong, and pointed and jeered at me, so the young cowboy ran home and cried to his mum and dad. My dad told me to tough it out
“Go and shoot them all, lad. That’ll teach them.” He had a wry smile on his face.
When our kids were young, guns had become a no-no. Some stores sold them, but parents shunned them. My brother-in-law Simon, believing the boys were being denied an important rite of passage, bought them both catapults. Not small, flimsy wooden catapults, but menacing, large metal catapults that, armed with a small rock, could put an eye out at a thousand paces. They were instantly confiscated, though the complaining continued for some time. Eventually we took the boys to the ocean’s edge and let them fire rocks into the safe distance. No dolphins or flying fish were injured, so don’t write in.
Emma and Linden are lucky to have a father—my son-in-law, Chris—who is basically a big kid. There isn’t a toy he won’t buy or build, and he gets more pleasure from the toy trucks or bouncy castles than his kids. Bouncy castle? Yes. He has one. Sorry, I mean, of course, the kids have one.
When Chris and Jani were first married, they had an impeccable townhouse with nary a thing out of place. Fast forward to today and two small children. Their living room is a chaos of toy trucks, toy drums, Lego, train tracks, balls, dolls, stuffies, garages, farms, and every delight a child could wish to play with.
Other kids come over for play dates just so they can go crazy in this toy shop of a house.
“I guess we’re not very good at saying no to them,” says Jani.
To be fair, Chris doesn’t just use toys for their fun. He also creates houses out of cardboard boxes and once manages to make a slide out of cardboard that went from the top to bottom of the stairs. Trying to descend the stairs on your feet without breaking your neck became a significant challenge.
Our grandkids play outside at every opportunity, and there’s a playground at an adjacent park where they spend many hours swinging and sliding and climbing. And biking on the trails.
Emma and Linden mostly play with the same kind of toys, but Linden is addicted to trucks and cars and diggers. He also has a large new toy truck that is almost as big as my first car, a Renault Dauphine.
Our kids had their Cabbage Patch dolls, and our grandkids have their Elsas and Annas and Olafs, but what is heartening to watch is that though they have all the toys, they also have imagination. I see them using their toys to create small shows or magical scenarios.
Most important, for now, is t
hey’re not addicted to video games. I’m not so sure about their dad.
9. Losing My Religion
“Do you believe in Jesus, Grandad?”
This was Emma speaking from the back of the car. We had been talking about Christmas and the nativity and the baby Jesus, and, sure being asked if you believe in Santa is one thing, but Jesus? Jesus!
I thought for a moment.
“I believe Jesus existed and that he was a good man, but I’m not sure if he was the son of God.”
“Do you believe in God, then? Is he real, Grandad?”
We are now getting into tricky territory. My kids all went to Sunday school because we felt it was a good thing to do when they were young, but none of our grandkids have been anywhere near a church. Like a growing number of people in the Western world, religion is not at the heart—or even at the outer edges—of their world.
In reply to Emma, I told her many people believed there was a God, that there were many religions and beliefs, and she would have to work it out for herself.
“I’m still trying to work it out too,” I said. “It’s a big thing. Most importantly, you have to respect what other people believe in.”
Thank goodness she didn’t ask me about Santa.
I had another conversation with a then–nine-year-old Mayana about religion, or about the story of Christmas, and I was somewhat dumbfounded to realize she knew next to nothing about the Christmas story, the Magi, the shepherds, Bethlehem. She knew the baby Jesus was born in a stable, but there wasn’t much more she could tell me.
And there, in a nutshell, is one of the biggest generational differences of all. Religion is not taught in public schools anymore. Not as a subject. It can be part of socials classes, comparative religions, and so on, but there’s no central religious instruction.
As small kids growing up in the 1950s, we sang a hymn in assembly every morning. Usually “There Is a Green Hill Far Away.” At high school, we were required to attend at least one class a week of RI—religious instruction—where the teacher talked us through some of the stuff in the Bible. I’m saying that’s what she taught, but I’m not sure. I spent most of the time looking out the window, at green hills far away. And dreaming of soccer. One of the RI teachers could never keep control of his room, and the place was chaos. Rulers and erasers were thrown, kids jumped on desks, and he was routinely shouted down and ridiculed. I felt very sorry for him, even though I was never in his class, but heard the commotion next door. I’m not sure why he invited such bad behaviour, but maybe God was testing him, in some mysterious way. He never raised his voice at the students. I’d have thrown the Book at them. The heaviest one I could find.