FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
I am a last minute shopper. I have never been one of those organised people who have everything done and dusted a week before the Big Day. Folks who have presents wrapped, firewood stacked, fairy lights checked, turkey prepped and drinks in (that’s if they drink) and are cool, calm and collected for the 25th.
Me, I’m still chasing my tail Christmas Eve. But loving it. Love the hustle and bustle of Christmas Eve. Love the madness, the mayhem. To me this is what Christmas is all about. Christmas shopping that is. We know, of course, what Christmas is really all about – the birth of a baby some 20,000 years ago in a stable in Bethlehem which we, including me, are sometimes inclined to forget because of the frenzy of commerce.
Last minute shopping done I head home for a few slices of freshly cooked honey-glazed ham, a warm mug of tea and head off on my rounds, my Christmas rounds. Rounds that I no longer make because the women I called to, Dolly, Molly and Betty, are long gone. Those three elderly ladies lived just a few houses apart in the estate where I was born and bred and they would have known me since I was in nappies. And so with a box of chocolates for each, I made my rounds.
Dolly was my first port of call. Dolly, a spinster, was maybe in her 60s, lived alone and was always glad to see me. This I knew by the way she’d warmly, and lovingly, hold my hand in hers, when welcoming me in. That little gift of a box of chocolates, that little gesture of mine, meant so much to her. Would I have a cup of tea? “No.’”More calls to make and I loved how Dolly placed that box of chocolates carefully beneath the tree, along with an assortment of other wrapped presents. “For Christmas Day,” she’d smile.
In hindsight I wish I had stayed longer with Dolly: a strong, independent lady, it nevertheless must have been lonely for her especially at Christmas time.
And then I was gone – a few steps down the road to Molly. Molly, widowed several years, was a relation of mine – my mother’s first cousin, I think, or first cousin once removed. I never quite knew what relation we were to each other – even though it had been explained to me several times at weddings and funerals.
With Molly I always had a wee drink – a glass of sherry more than likely and a good old natter about the issues of the day. It was only as the years went by that I realised how tuned in Molly was to all that was going on in the world, locally and globally. And she had opinions on all. Sound opinions. Strong opinions.
And what really took me aback was the fact that, Molly, well in her 70s, enjoyed the music of Coldplay!
Down the road then to Betty. Betty was to me what Molly was to me. I think. Oh, I never did get it right. Suffice it to say that we were cousins. Betty worked in the local shop known to us kids as simply ‘The Shop’. Betty had a big heart – you asked for a tuppeny ice cream – you got a thrupenny one. And there was always that extra bullseye in our bag of four.
Betty had the low-down on everything and anything that was happening in the neighbourhood. Who moved in, who moved out. “Sure you wouldn’t know anyone now, Ger, all changed since you lived here,” she’d say. And on she’d chat, as we sipped strong tea and munched Marietta biscuits.
I miss doing those ‘Christmas rounds’. Miss Dolly and Molly and Betty, the chit-chat, the sherry, the tea and Marietta biscuits. Miss the simplicity of it all.
Little did I think when I was a chap in short trousers that 50 years later those three short visits to those three lovely women would prove to be so precious a Christmas memory.
Finally, some Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy – forgiveness.
To an opponent – tolerance.
To a friend – your heart.
To every child – good example.
To yourself – respect.
