Lost Times

Lost Times

Deep in my memory I seem to recall that during my childhood,
Every Christmas was cold,  crispy and white, with snow, freshly laid,
When families stirred plum puddings with coins well hidden,
And munchy moist mince pies were always home made.

Our choice of a present came from a much discussed list,
Followed by hours of torment selecting  one from two of the best,
To fit in a pillow case along with a book and a shiny new penny,
Socks, shoes and shirts, some pants and a vest.

Which arrived as if by magic at the foot of our beds,
With fruit, and some nuts and sweets if we’d been good,
And the ‘Yule log’ was chosen to burn slowly and warmly,
Last the whole day, wasn’t chocolate,  but made out of wood.

It was a sense of occasion for remembering our family and friends,
And an annual reminder of the birth of our Lord,
Took  months of sacrifice and saving, preparation and planning,
Then weeks to consider who did what, so we wouldn’t be bored.

The elders amongst us made lanterns and wreaths  or puffed on balloons,
Young children coloured in paper and made chains by the furlong,
Mother  pickled onions, beetroot, cabbage and freshly laid eggs,
Father dressed chickens and a cockerel,  and a pig was well hung.

It was a time of barter with conditions agreed and promises kept,
No turkeys or fridges or a festival of light,
Nor computers, smart tellies or 18 speed bikes,
Or sledges or snowmen lit up every night.

Just family and neighbours and loads of good fun,
Whilst hanging glass baubles and tinsel  as the tree was brought in,
And holly was collected from the best that there was,
Dark green and well  berried and sharp as a pin.

Mistletoe cut from the orchard, like the apples we’d laid down,
Golden Cox’s ‘Orange Pippin’ in tissues, wrapped well,
Added months to the season if handled with care,
Good harvest meant profit from the ones we could sell.

Gently uncovered to reveal scents of the past,
Would only be eaten if rattled when shook,
Had firm unbruised skin and creamy white flesh,
Best ones kept for the stuffing and picked by the cook.

Our turn as hosts this time….. but others will be next,
Great food and a natter and lots of good cheer,
Charades and board games then dominoes or cards,
Elderflower wine and sherry and plenty of beer.

Dog wandering around to catch all the crumbs,
As we sat round the hearth singing carols and songs,
Telling jokes and long stories to join in the fun,
Radio warmed up to help vocals along.

Crumpets all toasted and heavy with butter,
Chestnuts lay roasting at the edge of the fire,
Filberts or cobnuts both are the same,
Gathered in our garden from trees that grew there.

Peeled and dried walnuts all resonant and gnarled,
From a tree that was beaten to make sure it would bear,
And there in the larder, standing row upon row,
Glass jars of Summer and Autumnal fruit, more of Mum’s wares.

Seasons preserved in a gloopy sweet syrup,
Jellies and custard, blancmange and a junket all cooled on the slate,
Gooseberries or raspberries as well as some pears,
And a juicy boiled hock, too big for its plate.

Then a fluted pork pie, majestic and regal,  all rustic and  brown,
Hot water crust pastry,  pigs trotters, pressed belly, shoulder and ears,
A treasure trove of delicacies to meet any taste
The guests wouldn’t be hungry, of that there were no fears.

Sounds of laughter and music and a sense of giving and sharing,
Hi’s and goodbyes, eating and drinking, hugging and kissing,
A sense of occasion, a chance to meet friends,
A day to see if dreams could come true to  end months of wishing.

Those were the reasons we’d gather to party that way,
And it helped lift the gloom on a cold mid-Winter’s day,
It was all about fun where money held no sway,
All based on family…………not the size of your pay.

By……….Robert Thomas 2014