Luky
For years I had opted to be a stay-at-home mom although I was a qualified shorthand-typist and could have been making good money for the family.
In South Africa schools opened early in January and our six children attended private schools - sometimes three or four kids at the same time.
January was the time for book-buying and registration.
Uniforms had to be upgraded and new shoes bought and one December we had a choice in that frugal year - either Christmas presents or school books.
In later years I rejoined the bank of working mothers and from then on we could afford both books and Christmas gifts.
But that meant losing other benefits - being with the children all the time and having the privilege of watching them growing up and sharing their sweetness.
Also giving them that je ne sais pas quoi quality that children whose mothers care fo them personally seem to have.
As the older people used to say: "You can have anything in life you want - provided you're prepared to pay the price."
To mix a metaphor: If I could put the clock back, would I have bitten the bullet?
On a different tack: my granddaughter has been playing on my computer and as I type there is a little brown dog cavorting all over the page, simpering and blinking his pinpoint eyes at me.
I wish I knew how to get rid of him.
When I was about thirteen, that same granddaughter's age, we in our family had a horribly frugal Christmas.
My father, a baker, was allowed to bring home two loaves of bread a day as part of his package, but we were new immigrants to South Africa and that day there seemed to be precious little else to eat.
My mother believed that if there was nothing in the house you ate soup, bananas and rice.
"Look how healthy people who eat this food are," she'd say.
We had a lot of soup, bread, bananas and rice in those years but it wasn't the fare you expected at Christmas.
A knock came to the door and I opened it. A man stood outside.
He said he and his family had come from far away to pay the people next door a surprise visit but they weren't at home.
He asked if we would keep their gifts and take them next door when the neighbours arrived home.
We carried the presents into the bedroom I shared with my sisters and placed them on the marble wash stand my mother had bought second-hand from an old Victorian lady who had sold up her home to move into a retirement place.
One of the gifts was a Hansel and Gretel house cake.
At various times during the afternoon I stole into the bedroom and pinched sweets and chocolates off the icing.
Next morning I took the presents into the neighbours. They were delighted to receive them but too civilised to express their astonishment at the denuded cake which, squirming with guilt, I carried in last.
I still remember the lady's expression of total astonishment as she looked at it and felt bitterly ashamed.
Somehow I knew even then that one day I would write a story about it for people to read.
Well here you are and I hope you don't think too badly of me.
To the betrayed donors and recipients, most of whom are probably already in heaven, celebrating the eternal Christmas - Christ with us - I can only say: "Mea culpa, meal culpa, mea maxima culpa."
I regret to add that the little brown dog is still jumping around my computer page and has been chortling sarcastically at me.
Many things are possible, but surely he can't read?
Catherine Nicolette
Kids. They pinch sweets from cakes and don't always know the full story.
Years ago Mom read the article I wrote about the time we as kids didn't get Christmas presents.
She then told me the real reason behind the presentless Christmas.
As a child, I had the perception we did not get Christmas gifts as an object lesson.
It never entered my youthful mind that my parents struggled to shelter, clothe, feed and educate six of us.
Today as I look at the astounding cost of living, I marvel at how well they managed, as well as the way they protected us as children from financial anxiety.
We might have had a frugal Christmas from time to time - but there was always a wealth of love . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment