Christmas in the 1950's ii

Before the days of Disneyland style multicolour house decoration, strobe lighting and epileptic-fit-inducing flashing strings of fluorescent fantasy, we used to decorate for Christmas in a very different way.

On Christmas Eve you would get the bus into town. Cities Towns and villages would have, in the centre, a painted background enormous crib scene, with painted plaster versions of Joseph, Mary, Jesus, shepherds, Wise men and various animals, in various states of shabbiness, because you could walk among them and stroke the animals, (the sheep were repainted more often as a result.)

And you could toss a bit of straw about when the parents’ eyes wandered to the tea stall next door. Health and safety regulations had not been invented then so it was not unusual to see children running round at high speed, occasionally leaping onto a horse or cow, or swinging from the scaffolding poles that held the ‘stable’ together.

Other stalls would be selling fruit and veg; geese and turkeys freshly killed would hang from butchers hooks; Turkish delight and crystallised fruit would tempt us in exotic eastern decorated bamboo boxes and the stalls themselves would be gloriously decked out with real greenery, firs, holly, ivy and mistletoe. Oranges were wrapped individually in coloured tissue, ready to go into childrens’ Christmas stockings. The Christmas tree was bought for 5 shillings, rooted to replant or chopped, if you only had a small backyard like us.

Then, Christmas Eve the work began. Peeling the potatoes, carrots, putting the cross on the base of each Brussel sprout (so that you could boil them to death.) Then stuffing to make. Mincemeat which had been made in October along with the Christmas cake would be spooned into the pastry cases you had made earlier and then put into the oven to cook. No cellophane, plastic or cardboard to bin, no preservatives or fridges to make things last.

While the food was prepared in the kitchen, Dad would be in the front room (which was only used for big events), keeping the children from getting over-excited by decorating the Christmas tree, which he had put in a big tub, usually a bucket.

There would be baubles made of glass, a straw angel on the top, cotton wool snow, fairy lights with tiny coloured bulbs - which often died or tripped the wiring, causing sparks to fly - and figures made from wood, alabaster or paper, from the scene at Bethlehem, baby Jesus in a tiny crib.

Then, if we had any energy left we would glue strips of coloured paper into chains, which Dad would hang on the walls while we slept and which would greet us on Christmas morning after we had delved into the Christmas stocking (one of Dad’s socks) and taken out the orange, notebook and pencil, a toy car or small doll and a whistle or other musical item with which to annoy the grownups. My favourite present of all time was a wind-up sparkling Cinderella and Prince Charming musical toy which danced when you wound it up.

Many years later I discovered that it was Granny, not Father Christmas, who provided it.

Jean Taylor

Who has Mum for Christmas lunch?

A few years ago when my mother was still alive there were arguments in the family about who should have her on Christmas Day. The concept of taking turns was present but didn't altogether work.

My brother and his family are vegetarian and just to complicate the issue, my nephew celebrates his birthday on the 25th of December!  (His father was a carpenter at the time he was born.)  A strict 2 hours was allocated to this celebration. Afterwards it was allowed to be Christmas!

Both myself and daughters would invite Mum for turkey and all the trimmings. My brother and family would invite her for the Christmas birthday celebration and then a vegetarian lunch. So we said to Mum, ‘surely you don't want a vegetarian lunch followed by a meaty one?’  ‘Oh, I think that sounds like an excellent plan,’ said Mum.

But sadly, we didn't get to see my brother’s family, and they didn't get to see us. And it's still the same, several years down the line. I usually see one or other daughter and their young family at Christmas or both.  Sometimes I think it would be nice to go to church in the morning and then have an M&S ready meal sitting in front of the telly all by myself. Bah humbug!

Janet G

Christmas in the 1950’s i

Some years, Christmas for my family back in the 1950’s weren’t always entirely in Loughborough.

My aunt on my mother’s side lived in Melton Mowbray. Some years we would all go over to Melton on a Barton’s bus, to join her and her husband Fred for Boxing Day.

Aunt Kathy (as we knew her) and Fred had no children of their own, so were in the habit of making a lot of visiting nephew and nieces from Loughborough.

Traditional Christmas lunch was always first class and the afternoon always passed with games and presents. Fred would play something humorous on the piano, frequently pieces from Gilbert and Sullivan.

Kath put a lot of work into the nature of the gifts, and we knew that we would all either get a laugh or be laughed at during the openings.

One year mine came in a huge box, wrapped in layers and layers of paper. Box after box, one inside another, each with its own multiple paper layers, revealed in the end a very small box marked ‘to whoever it may concern.’ On opening it I found a small piece of paper on which was written:-

‘A WORD OF WARNING TO THE GUEST THAT BIG THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS BEST.’

As ever, suitable compensation followed later.

Although they have both now sadly passed away, Christmas never goes by without fond reflections of those days.

David Taylor

Cold Feet

Paul was beginning to regret not listening when Mum'd told him to find some wellies in the shed. Only old people wear wellies. Old people and sissies. What was a bit of snow, eh? What did it matter if he couldn’t feel his feet? True, his plimmies lacked any kind of grip, but everyone was sliding about like they were on an ice rink, anyhow, so no one had particularly noticed. And he'd shut them up with a punch in the mouth if they did say anything.

‘Last one to the corner’s a smelly fart!’ Speno said and they slithered off into the night like a pack of young wolves, laughing and whooping and bending low to scoop balled-up ice to throw through the air. Speno won and ‘ha ha it's you, Paul!’ he shouted, and everyone joined in except Paul.
‘You try running in plimmies!’ he muttered, frowning.
‘You should ‘a worn boots, then!’ Jake Gill said smugly, holding up a foot to show off his own thick-soled docs. Paul ignored him. Instead, he nodded at the large house ahead of them, standing proud behind a snow-topped hedge.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep, Speno answered, pressing his hair flat with one gloved hand. ‘Are you ready, lads?’
Everyone quietened down at that, coughing to clear throats and shrugging their shoulders to settle themselves back into their coats. Paul elbowed his way up the line behind Speno, following him through the gate and down the neatly gritted path. Speno waited a moment at the doorstep, then pressed the doorbell before counting in. ‘One, two and a one, two, three …’

‘Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and tri-umm-phant!’

The fanlight above the door lit up, illuminating elegant numbers etched delicately within its arch.

‘Come ye, oh come ye to Beh-heth-lee-hem!’

The door swung open, flooding the lads’ faces with warm light and causing Paul to squint a little.

‘Come and be-hold him, born the king of ay-en-jells …’

‘Well, what do we have here?’ the shadowed figure on the doorstep declared, its jovial voice revealing it to be Reverend White. ‘Martha!’ he called behind him. ‘Bring the children and come and see!’

‘Oh come let us adore him …’

A smiling, kindly woman appeared, followed by a young boy in pyjamas and, a little way back in the hallway, the most beautiful girl Paul had ever seen. Diana White. Their eyes met for the flicker of a second before Paul looked away.

‘Oh come let us adore him …’

Reverend White peered at them all, leaning forwards as if to get a better look. ‘‘If it isn't Martin Spencer!’ he smiled. ‘And is that you, Paul Thomas? Goodness, child, is it plimsoles you're wearing? Your feet must be frozen on a light night like this!’

‘Oh come let us adore him, Christ the Lord!’

Paul felt his cold face flush and wished the grit-covered earth beneath his stupid numb feet would open wide and swallow him whole.

Alison Mott

My Christmas card for Grandma - 1946

“Put your finger on here,” Mum said. She was tying a bow on a beautifully wrapped parcel.  As it was a regular oblong shape, she had found it easy to wrap the paper round it.  Holly and ivy were printed all over the sheets of paper, but the paper itself was very thin and easily torn. 

“Who is it for?” I asked. 

“It’s for Grandma, up in Durham,” she said. “We need to wrap this in brown paper and get it off to the Post Office this afternoon.”  She finished tying the bow.  I recognised the ribbon as being the same as she used to tie in my plaits, but there was plenty left on the roll.

“What did you get Grandad?” I asked. 

“Grandad is no longer with us,” Mum said.  “Don’t you remember?  He died earlier this year.”

“Oh,” I said.  “Grandma will not be very happy this Christmas.” 

Mum said that my aunties would make sure that she would not be alone over Christmas and said that it would be a good idea if I would make her one of my special Christmas cards.

Pleased to have a job to do, I gathered my pencils and paints together and set to.  I remember drawing a very unhappy angel with copious tears dripping onto an empty dinner plate, at a table set ready for Christmas dinner with serviettes and a cracker. 

I do hope that Mum never sent it! 

J. M. Harker

Early Christmas morning call - 'can we go down, yet?'

We’d wake very early and after the first seconds of in-comprehension, would ping with remembrance of what day it was – usually through feeling the heavy stocking lying across our feet.  No hanging on a doorknob for us, or even hanging by the fire side downstairs – what’s the point of that?  In later years I’d come across people whose family tradition was to have a Christmas pillowcase.  Surely the roominess of a pillowcase would take the fun out of second-guessing the lumps and bumps inside, let alone be a headache, cost-wise, for parents to fill?

No, in our family the tradition was for presents to be rammed into one cut-off leg of an old pair of tights and then placed across the bottom of the bed.  The excitement of dealing with the presents and chocolates and fruit that we found there would keep us occupied for a while and extend our parents’ time in bed. 

But only by a very little, in truth, because if they weren’t woken by our shrieks and squeals and the noise of us scurrying from bedroom to bedroom to see what each other had got, then our lack of patience in wanting to go downstairs to find our ‘big presents’ would soon become apparent. 

Eventually, we’d pluck up courage and our voices would join together in a chorus of ‘can we go down yet?’  And eventually they’d agree that we could and we’d thunder down the steep stairs of our little council house and into the darkened cave of the cold, winter living room.

 Alison Mott

No poet

No, I’m not a poet,
I cannot find the time,
To juggle varied English words,
And try to make them rhyme.

No, I’m not a poet,
Clever words I leave to others,
They frame in verse things ‘good’ or worse,
Immortalize their mothers.

No, I’m not a poet,
I shall never leave behind,
A list of life’s conundrums,
For others to unwind.

So at Christmas just be grateful
Your ‘latter dated sage’
Has left its ‘joys’ unwritten,
Packed up and left the stage!

Anon