Educating Yuletide

As a young boy, my father lived in a town called Noupoort in the Cape Province of South Africa. His father was a cockney lad from London and his mother a refined lady from Southampton. When the family arrived in the town there was no one who spoke English. And any effort by my grandmother to speak Afrikaans was met with mocking and laughter, so she stopped speaking to the locals. But my father and uncle had to attend school come hell or high water or lack of language skills. Grandpa (of cockney heritage) bought them a donkey to ride to school on, due to the distance needed to travel. But donkeys are notoriously difficult to coerce into doing your bidding. Uncle Tommy sat holding the reins and my father sat facing the rear end of said animal. Uncle Tommy would click his tongue in encouragement and squeeze his thighs to signal to the donkey to move. And it didn't. That is when my father would grab the tail and lift it to his lips and ... bite. With lots of complaints the donkey would take off across the veld. Past the blockhouse the British soldiers had built during the Boer war to combat the commando style raids of the Boers. Past the Concentration camp that the British had used to subdue the families of the Boers and where many thousand of them died a horrible death. And into the schoolyard where they were the only British children amongst a few dozen descendants of those still angry Boer families. At the age of five, my father learnt to fight back. The teachers turned a blind eye to the bruises on Uncle Tommy and my father and commiserated with any Boer children when they showed similar signs of fighting. The system was skewed in the favour of the locals and my grandparents and their children were definitely not considered locals. Grandpa and Gran were in charge of the restaurant on the railway station platform. When trains from Cape Town stopped for lunch, Gran would feed them delicious meals and it gave her the opportunity to speak English to those who didn't think it was a crime. But black eyes and scrapes grew more fierce as the years went on and my grandmother decided that it would be good for my father to go to Durban and live with her sister. Durban, where English was the lingua franca and Afrikaans was the second language. The only thing my father regretted was leaving that donkey behind. Uncle Tommy was too sickly to be sent away to school and was homeschooled for a while. I have been doing my usual reader/writer thing at the local school here in Hamilton, New Zealand (reading the question aloud for the child and then writing their answer .. mainly for dyslexic and adhd children) Anyhow, I see the children arrive at school, not on a donkey, or a horse but rather in some very fancy cars. Cars that would break my personal bank account. One young man roared into the carpark in a Maserati, which no doubt belongs to his father, but still, a Maserati. My student sat after the exam and bought a quad bike online, like I would buy a loaf of bread. No thought to expenses or costs. He grinned at me and said "Now I have six quads." As if it was the most normal thing in the world. We had just completed a maths exam and I was so tempted to say something like "Does that make it a quadratic equation?" Nope, I am not that mean. Or would that just make me an ass?

When I was at school, we trudged through Charles Dickens novels year by year. But did you know that Charles Dickens spent most of his early life in debtors prison? His father was so badly in debt that the whole family were put into a poor house to help pay off the debts. This dark start to his life didn't stop Charles from having a good sense of humour. He had a fake bookcase with strange titled books, like Noah's Arkitecture and Cat's lives in 9 volumes. As Christmas approaches I always think of his story about Scrooge. "A Christmas Carol." Queen Victoria was on the throne at the time and her husband had introduced English people to the traditions of his own homeland. Fir trees covered with decorations and cards filled with messages. But much as that nostalgic image reminds us of happy times, in Dickens' time children were being cruelly treated. They had very few rights and often went to work down mines and in factories from an early age. Dickens considered politically rampaging against the system but decided, instead, to write A Christmas Carol that would touch the hearts of all who heard it. The readers condemned the wicked Scrooge and his penny pinching ways and applauded the hardworking Bob Crachitt trying to give his family some hope. The visitation of the ghosts was an inspired idea. Children squealed with pleasure to think that the evil man will get his comeuppance. Adults nodded their heads in silent glee at the visitations and his final capitulation. Scrooge's business partner, who died a few years before, came to warn him about the consequences of his actions. Marley warns him of his mean ways and how no good can come from them. No joy. The subtle message is that money in the bank does not keep you warm at night. My own personal ghosts of Christmas Past remind me of carols by candlelight on the hill behind the MOTH hall. Of limited gifts and lots of food. The ghost of Christmas Present tells me that I should appreciate the things I have in my life. And of course the Ghost of Christmas Future reminds me to leave behind a legacy of kind words and gentle deeds. And food. What message would I give to the children in Charles Dickens' story? Is it that a child brought up in poverty can make a difference? Or that hard work and perseverance will help you climb out of a hole? Would that really keep them warm at night and hunger from their bellies? No, maybe not.

The Ukrainian tradition of Christmas is of a poor widow who couldn't afford to decorate her tree. The night before Christmas spiders came and spun their webs, creating gorgeous, delicate designs and patterns that the children loved to see. It is still considered lucky to have a spider web on your tree come Christmas morning. In the Netherlands, a pair of shoes is left in front of the fire along with some treats. And of course, a carrot for the faithful steed, called Amerigo who carries Sinterklaas from home to home. In Iceland the story goes that a giant cat roams around the countryside on Christmas eve, devouring bad workers. Good workers received a set of new clothes. I could live with a giant cat story, but am I a good worker or a bad one? In South Africa the Christmas worm is a snack for good little Zulu children. The Mopani worm is apparently delicious, but I can't say I have ever tried them. They are a specific worm, the Pine Tree Emperor moth. Nope, still not keen to try them, Emperor or not. In my adopted country of New Zealand we have the Pohutukawa tree, which is festooned with bright red flowers and is truly beautiful. Gnarled exposed roots and twisted branches hang off cliffs and over roads and paths. Bees buzz through the flowers seeking nectar and no, we don't eat the bees, we have BBQ's and Hangi meals instead. Finally we have the Christmas goat of Sweden, where much of our Christmas ideas spring from. This goat is led around by Saint Nic and has the power to control the devil himself. The man sized goat has over the centuries been known to be both good and bad. Now wouldn't that be nice, to have a man sized goat under the Christmas tree this year. Maybe not. I have seen goats eat their way through rope and fences, butt their horns against windows and doors, terrorise children and other animals and seriously, not a good house guests at the best of times. Shoes are devoured, clothes ripped off washing lines and nothing is safe from a goat on the rampage. Goat curry on the other hand is delicious. The spicier the better. So if you see a spider web on your tree, take heart, it's good luck. And if you come to my house for Christmas lunch, I promise not to serve you fried worms.

I myself have some Christmas projects in hand. A ceramic mug filled with sachets of hot chocolate and marshmallows and topped with a choc chip biscuit and a teaspoon dipped in melted chocolate will be making the rounds. In my quest for less waste, we are not buying wrapping this year. Each gift will either be wrapped in a dishcloth. A clean dishcloth, obviously. Or a pillowcase decorated with pithy sayings and quirky drawings a la Pat Pike. And then there are the pickles that I am naming Pikeles Projects ... um okay, that doesn't sound that amazing after all. Oh well, maybe not pickles then.

So, farewell to November and hello to the mind numbing energy of December. The silly crazy season of good cheer.