Curious Christmas Customs: Ken Gibbs

by Ken Gibbs

Christmas – for many – is a time for family, fun and the oddest of customs which allow children to indulge their belief in the impossible, mostly encouraged by their parents.

The writer J R R Tolkein who wrote ‘Lord of the Rings’ and ‘The Hobbit’ about imaginary worlds, also wrote ‘Letters from Father Christmas’ which are classics, and which gave us some ideas of our own.  We used the ‘device’ on our children, on our grandchildren and, if we survive a few more years, our unfortunate great-grandchildren will also have Father Christmas letters inflicted on them, too.  There is a groan whenever they are mentioned.

In our family, Father Christmas usually only ever writes a letter to a child who has written to him with a wish-list which gives Father Christmas the opportunity to say something ‘valuable’ to the child (probably ‘memorable’ is a better description ?).  Judge for yourself from this sample:

Addressed to Mia (our first grandchild) who had just been born, so she was not expected to have written a letter to Father Christmas yet.

Father Christmas is, as every child knows, very, very old so his handwriting is a bit wobbly.  He is given to bad puns and unlikely scenarios.  His main ‘helper’ is The North Polar Bear.  To assist in creating an imaginary world, Father Christmas usually paints a picture.

This shows why the UNICEF, Quetta, Office had to employ an outside graphic artist to provide pictures for the ORT poster.  Father Christmas’s skills were definitely not up to scratch.

*****

Dhaka, Bangladesh, 1983:

Our children, then 13 and 10 years old, joined us for Christmas but if you thought that they were too old to believe in Father Christmas, you’d be wrong.  Well, that’s what they told us.

It was Christmas Eve and the regulation letters to Father Christmas had been written and delivered, and Father Christmas himself – between sampling mince pies and looking longingly at that bottle-shaped gift under what served as the Christmas tree – was putting the finishing touches to that year’s letter from Father Christmas.

There was feverish activity, closed doors, whispered conversations and a complete trashing of normal routines but Mary and I knew there was nothing we could do but accept that for one or two days, the family would be suffering pre-traumatic stress disorders.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  

At supper there was considerable discussion regarding what Father Christmas and the reindeer would require as their gift for visiting.  Alcohol was discouraged – after all, the Christmas Eve present delivery service was not your weekend pub-crawl, was it ?  Being a jovial and well padded person, Santa would undoubtedly require bolstering from time to time and the home fires would be kept burning quite nicely if a mince pie were left for him.  For the reindeer, even acknowledging that there are usually eight of them, if something was left out for each of them at every household, they’d never finish the round – so it was decided that a single carrot would do very nicely.  Other households were doing the same so we had been told, so that the reindeer would be well fed.

Judging when to start the process of getting the children to bed is a balancing act that never works.  The first time it is suggested there is a howl of dismay, “We are not nearly ready !” and at their age, tempting them to bed with the promise of a story hardly ever works unless they are ill.  They both read perfectly well themselves, and staying up as late as possible on Christmas Eve was far more tempting.  Nevertheless, mother had decided that they would have a story each and there was an end to it.  Clearly, their minds were on other things and Mary probably read to herself on this particular occasion.

At around two hours later than their normal bed time, Mary called it a day and informed them that Father Christmas would NOT visit while they were still awake so that sleep was probably the right way to go.  She withdrew.

The children kept talking to each other from their rooms as was their custom and we sat down for the long wait – that part of Christmas I had come to dread.  The stockings were ready to go – without chocolate pennies since they had this nasty habit of melting within five minutes of being taken from the fridge – and all I wanted to do was to place them on the children’s beds and to go to sleep.  

Eventually, with heavy eyelids, we decided that the time had come as we could barely stay awake any longer.  Mary was despatched to check.  She crept as quietly as possible down the now dark passage towards their bedrooms and turned the corner just before their two doors.  However, because it was so dark, she didn’t see that the children had booby-trapped Father Christmas by placing the salver with carrot and mince pie and despite advice to the contrary – a can of beer – right in the middle of the dark passage.

There was a crash as Mary stood on the edge of the salver and the can of beer flew up and landed with a clatter back on to it.  I could hear a sharp intake of breath from Mary and then a small fluting voice from Sara’s room saying, “Wait for it, wait for it Father Christmas – I’m not asleep yet !” followed by suppressed hysterical laughter from both mother and daughter.

That Christmas, we had to wait till well after midnight before we could place the stockings, but we dined out for many years on that strategically placed salver with can of beer.  We are sure that Father Christmas really appreciated the beer because it had been consumed by next morning.  

Curiously, father himself had to visit the bathroom quite early on that Christmas morning and the children were intrigued to know whether he was approaching a second childhood that he woke so early – to see what Father Christmas had brought him ?

Paisha, the dog, had discovered the mince pie before morning and Mary had removed the carrot so honour appeared to be satisfied on all counts.  However, as soon as the gifts under the tree started to be distributed, Paisha again took an interest in one particular parcel – the one which had been sent from Britain.  On opening it, we saw why Paisha had been so interested.  It was a pot of stilton cheese which by now had grown whiskers and seemed ready to walk out the door.  

*****

Windhoek, Namibia, 1995:

Because I would be leaving the organisation the following mid-year, it was suggested that this would be my last chance to portray that bumbling, jovial figure of Father Christmas despite his being rotund and my being as thin as a rake.  Pillows could pad out the difference, they said.

A suitable red coat with peaked hat, pillows and copious quantities of cotton wool were located and found to be adaptable for my rather long frame.  I was also loaned a rather smelly pair of wellington boots to complete the ensemble.  However, reindeer are in short supply in Namibia despite there being many different animals on offer.  Zebra were considered but quickly rejected as they are rather unpredictable.  Patently, I had to find alternative means of transport.  I asked around.

One wag suggested that I could use a “tuk-tuk” (See the entry for “Auto rickshaw” in Wikipedia).  I enquired whether there were any “tuk-tuks” in Windhoek ?  It appeared that there was at least one, and it might be for hire.  I phoned; it was; and I booked it.  I had, after all, used “tuk-tuks” frequently in India and knew how to get into – and much more importantly, how to alight from - such machines, putting me well ahead of most of the rest of the office.

Namibia lies south of the equator and straddles the Tropic of Capricorn.  This means that, effectively, the sun is directly overhead at Christmas with some quite high temperatures.  Father Christmas was not designed to operate in such temperatures as his gear is better suited to deep snows, so that when I arrived at the appointed venue at the appointed time, rivers of sweat were already flowing.  Joviality in such circumstances can really only be achieved by the addition of copious quantities of the local brew – Windhoek Lager - which was not on offer as the venue was the boss’s home.

Father Christmas knows exactly what each child has requested, and knows precisely what has been given, but he had a head-start on me because I hadn’t been given the list of gifts in time, so it was, “And what did the North Polar Bear wrap up for you this time, dearie ?”, and then when I received a blank look, realising that I needed to say the same thing but in Afrikaans. . . . . . . .so you will understand that the trauma was not suffered by the kids, it was Father Christmas who fared badly.

When finally all the gifts had been given out and each child had received at least one gift; and all the kids had been filled to capacity with cakes, sweets and sticky buns (and at least one of the kids beyond that capacity), and Father Christmas had bid his farewell so he could visit some of the other children waiting for their gifts, it was time for me to leave.  My departure couldn’t come soon enough as I was in dire need of a very stiff drink and a long, cold shower.

I now have considerable respect for the many poor men who are prevailed upon to don the mantle of Father Christmas – particularly those in the southern hemisphere – so they can play to that suspension of disbelief of children who manage to live – albeit for all too short a time – in a magical world.

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