The Rural Voice, 1978-12, Page 18The Voice of A Farmer
by Adrian Vos
A Christmas I remember
When you read these words, it will be only a few weeks more
until Christmas. Thinking about it now, in the first half of
November , the old feeling, part festive and part nostalgia, is
starting to creep up on me. But if I start thinking back, I wonder
where that nostalgic feeling comes from. Certainly not from all
the memorable presents I received, for I could envy a school
friend for his electric train while I got a wooden one that had to
be pulled on a string. Certainly not from the turkey dinner, for
the best that my parents could do was to kill the rabbit for the
Christmas dinner.
Ah, but now I've done it. Memories are flooding back. After all
these years I can see myself walking proudly on the gravel road,
pulling my locomotive and the string of flat -cars behind it, laden
heavily with odds and ends. What if my rich friend has an
electric train, he can't even drive it in the road?
I can see the whole family expectantly around the table, knife
and fork at the ready like flagpoles and swallowing the water that
comes into our mouths, while Father cuts into the delightfully
brown "piece de resistance" that doesn't even look like an old
rabbit anymore anyway.
There were eight of us around that table. but that rabbit must
have been a miracle rabbit, like the jar of oil of the prophet
Elisha, that never emptied, or the five thousand loaves. Each of
us got at least half a rabbit, and never since has any rabbit tasted
the same.
Sometimes we received a pair of socks or a new shirt. The
necktie as a gift was not unusual either. If Dad, who was a tailor,
had made an extra suit for a rich farmer, some of us might even
have a new pair of shoes.
Comparing gifts with other kids just couldn't be done. You
see, if we took.our gifts out of our home for comparison, we left
something home that belonged with the gift. The gift was not
complete anymore. Today I know what was missing. Why the gift
was nothing but joy at home and nothing but a bare gift outside.
At home the whole thing was wrapped in a jacket of love. A
wrapping that nobody could see; a wrapping that could only be
felt.
Then, when Christmas -Eve came, we went at the hand of Mom
and Dad to church. If we would have had to go alone, we would
have seen ghosts everywhere in the darkness around us, but with
our parents to hold onto us, we felt safe, a mantle of love
enveloping us.
And after the church service we, the little ones, could stay up
long after our normal bedtime. My oldest brother would play his
mouth organ, and the rest of us would sing, sitting around the
stove. We would sing of the silent and Holy night; of the
shepherds at night; of the three wise men. Dad knew music, for
he was the choir director, and usually we sang in three voices.
Our treble sopranos and the older sisters alto, while dad covered
the heavy bass tones.
It doesn't seem to matter that in my native Holland, St.
Nicolaas came on a different day from Christmas. The feeling is
no different. That feeling of being surrounded by love. I wish
everyone of you the same good feeling.
PG. 18 THE RURAL VOICE/DECEMBER 1978
IIIIENOUGIL
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