Those Vivid Kinder Christmasings

I’m sure I’m not the only one whose Christmases are somehow punctuated by calamity or drama. Mix into that, the bloodfelt mysticism of a girl who read the Illiad and watched the BBC adaptation of the Chronicles of Narnia too many times and you have touch out loud memories. Sometimes it’s hard to place where memory ends and myth begins. 

One of the earliest Christmas memories was my brother’s first Christmas. In fitting of the Christmas bumps, he somehow headbutted the headboard of our parent’s bed. It was not me. Homicidal childhood jealousy could only end with a positive. Christmas Eve was an ambulence ride to the Regional Hospital. A yellow-towelled and bloody-splattered ride into the night. 28 Days Later had nothing on that frenzied ride to the hospital. 

Or how about the year Nana set the Christmas tree on fire. Long story. Or even the year my brother and I gave my grandfather Chicken Pox? Who’d have thunk that the pensioner could have avoided the pox for more than 60 years? That year I got a bright red telephone set and remember stringing the wires across landings, down stairs and around corners in my grandparents’ cottage. I was already addicted to phones. “Hello, can I speak to Mr Keane” “Hello, yes Mr. O’Brien can’t talk now. He’s in a very important meeting. I’m very sorry” “Are you sure?” “Yes” Needless to say, the following year my secretarial skills and our annual Christmas trip to Nana’s was cruelly skipped. Who knew what pathogens we could unleash on Grandad? Does Ebola itch?

The Christmas Eve forever etched in my memory as the ONE was the year I saw Santa. It’s one of those neon blue memories that you somehow store away like shiny marbles. I remember the shuffle outside the bedroom door and pushing further still down the swaddling blankets.

The bedroom I shared with my brother was lit by a pool light that coughed off a nearby amber lamp post. Woodchip wallpaper cast mini volcano shadows on the neat magazine cuttings over my bed. Inside my tight lids, the colours were hazy greys. Scrunching them tighter still, lest a spark of the netherdarkness get in and curse me to a Santaless Hell. I adjusted my breathing to shallow, repetitive gulps sprinkled with the odd nasal ornamentation seconds before the door scuffed open. My interloper breathed softly and carefully retracted out of our domain. Counting my drumming heartbeats, I held my breath for days, hours and years. Never before had a girl aged so much in such a short space of time. I was the spirit of Impatience.

Finally, I plucked every ounce of fuckoff courage and unrolled myself from my blanket cocoon. Having spent myself in creeping out of bed, I paced a little. Should I go down? What would happen if I did? Was He downstairs dusting off the nibbles I had left out? Was I brave enough to risk it? I settled on the window that bisected our room in moon beams. The setting wasn’t that Americana posterbook that Coca-Cola sells you, rather it was a damp night. Somehow my eyes settled on a blue twinklyness punched out of the night skies. A bright and blinking light. It moved from B to A, right to left across the night’s stage. I watched and waited, where to next?

After a happy slink back into bed and a deep sleep, I awoke next morning to pastel-painted dollhouse. The greatest gift that Christmas was the eon I spent accompanying Santa on his skyride. My dollhouse ran a poor second. Every kid knows that believing beats seeing.

December 25th, 2008 at 1:03 am • Filed in Brainstrobing



Comments

2 Comments to “Those Vivid Kinder Christmasings”

  1. Damien Mulley Says:
    December 25th, 2008 at 1:10 am

    Barry’s Tea ad right there! Really good post Alexia. Very vivid descriptions too.



  2. Tommy Says:
    December 25th, 2008 at 9:48 am

    Lovely post. Well done. :)



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