My Mother's Mince Pies, A Brown Parcel, and Spam and Eggs

Christmas reminds me of my mother's mince pies. She used to throw them at me just as dusk was falling and shout, 'Get a bloody job, and don't come back until you've got one!' Then she would slam the front door. The fact I was eight years old never entered - what I believe to be - an irrational mind. I remember sitting for several hours in a snowdrift listening to the church bells ringing in the distance. I wondered what would be in my brown parcel on Christmas Day? I knew I'd swear and curse if it was mincemeat again.

My elder brother always received the best present: a wooden train set, a plastic trumpet, or a Cowboy Annual. Who in their right mind gives a son mincemeat? My sister once got a wig? What was that all about? Darned if I know? It's not like she was bald, or anything.

My mother often sent me away with cold ironic words: “How nice!” "Whatever!" "Don't forget to write!" "What occupation have you then?!" and tell me to give them to our next door neighbour. I believe my mother may have been struck on the head with a heavy object when she was young, or perhaps had lived too long with old furniture. She once made me sit in our dustbin for three hours because I said Grandmother smelled funny. I've fond memories of Christmas, especially Christmas Eve, when I was allowed into the house to sleep in a warm bed.

I have no photographs of my mother during that time but I remember she resembled Santa Claus to a degree: her red nose, black hooded eyes filled with resentment, pale face, long hair, and white scraggly beard (she made a point of not shaving at Christmas). As she served our Christmas meal - spam and eggs - she smoked a cigar and downed shots of whisky.

The brown parcels were not handed out until the meal was consumed and the table cleared. My father twisted his vocal chords in an attempt to sing a carol, and we all clenched our teeth waiting for its painful demise. I believe it may be the only time we felt like a real family. Then the radio would be switched on - tuned to some station broadcasting melancholy classical music. Suddenly, I understood the need for Buddhism, though I had never heard of it.

While the radio crackled my father would exchange his normal attire for women's clothes?! He would make a short speech about Santa being bi-sexual or something(?!) and imitate our next-door neighbours who - at this juncture - were usually glaring through our front window.

The brown parcels containing our present would then be handed out by my father dressed in drag. I remember feeling faint with rage. A bloody hamburger! I threw the uncooked meat in the direction of my father's new dress, cursed and sweared, and ran out into the cold, crisp air.

That night I rode the subway all night from north of of the Bronx to Coney Island. I hadn't even five cents so I slipped under the turnstile. My heart beat in time with the falling snowflakes. I drifted in and out of sleep. I was a kid, small, with my nose close to the ground, and a curious imagination. I could sense more magical moments, unexpected sights, and wonders lay up ahead.

Reflections: The street outside my house is covered in snow. The wind is bitter and the absence of pedestrians and children is proof of severe weather conditions. One of the great things about Christmas is that you can relax with family, relatives and friends and just be yourself. There is no one to impress. Time to put away the mask. It's a relief to see the faces of people you love, or to hear their voices on the telephone.

All relationships endure conflict at some stage. Hopefully, there is enough love, courage, strength and understanding to ensure it does not persist a lifetime. Life is too short. No minute, hour, or day of the year exists without someone, somewhere, on this earth, thinking about a beloved family member, relative, friend - they though was indestructible - who has died, or become ill. Then our worst fears are realized.

Enjoy those times when the gentle wind blows, and life tastes warm, refreshing, better. And the sound of laughter fills the air.

Merry Christmas to all.

Dedicated to the memory of my mother Tilly Kerrigan (1926 - 2004)