Carol’s Column

Never mind the lumps in the jam — it’s the thought that counts

FATHER Christmas made a mistake in case you didn't know.

“You know, Ma,” my daughter said as we waded our way through rainbow paper and coloured ribbon while wrapping presents, “Father Christmas couldn't have been thinking too brightly ...”

“Mmm,” I answered. My stock reply when my thoughts are elsewhere but I'm trying to be a good mother and pay attention.

“Ma, I think I've just stabbed myself with the pair of scissors and I'm bleeding to death. Ungh, ungh, gurgle, gurgle.”

“Mmm,” I replied. And then her words sank in. “Good heavens, don't drip on the carpet,” I cried. “It'll stain dreadfully.”

“Ma, is that all you're worried about?” said my daughter, her pansy eyes wide with shock.

“Of course not. But I know you haven't really stabbed yourself with the pair of scissors — we mothers are not stupid, you know.”

“True,” said Nicky, and shook her head woefully. “Anyway, now that I've got your attention ... Father Christmas couldn't have been thinking too brightly.”

Jam

“Why, Nicky?” I asked as I wrapped a bottle of home-made apricot jam for my good friend Betty.

“Because had he been on the ball, he would never have chosen a reindeer to pull his sleigh. He would have opted for a cheetah instead. They travel twice as fast. It means he could have gone round the world in half the time.”

“True,” I murmured, gazing at my daughter, “but a cheetah wouldn't have looked so nice. His spots would clash with the snow.”

“Oh, Ma, the trouble with grown-ups is you have no imagination. You're conservative in your thinking, unimaginative, boring. Just think how beautiful a sleigh being pulled by Charlie the red-nosed cheetah would look. Rudolph is passé.”

“Aah, passé,” I agreed, nodding my head wisely. “And who needs a passé reindeer when you can have a mod cheetah?”

“I think you're pulling my leg,” said Nicky as she wrapped another bottle of apricot jam for Marion.

Yukky

She paused. Then: “You know, these presents all look yukky.”

“Yukky?”

“Well, you know what I mean, Ma. Every year we make home-made presents for Christmas and somehow, each year they look worse.”

“Nicky, it's the thought that counts,” I said quite sharply. “Don't you think Betty would rather get a bottle of apricot jam made with love and burnt sugar, even if it is lumpy? Don't you think Boet would rather get a bottle of home-brewed Lazar moonshine than a bottle of bought grog?”

“No,” said Nicky. “Last time you gave Boet some home-brew, it exploded when he tried to uncork it. He'd be far happier with a bottle of bought whisky.”

The trouble with Christmas, I thought to myself, was that it's become too commercialised. Watch TV and to the merry sound of 'Jingle Bells' you're encouraged to buy diamonds, a video-recorder, a new car or a gold necklace.

And if a child doesn't get a new computer game, toy machine gun or video toy, he or she has missed out on Christmas.

Yes, things aren't what they used to be. Or are they? I looked around my bedroom. A bunch of faded paper Christmas flowers made 15 years ago, when my oldest unmarried son was four, balanced lopsidedly in a tin can vase decorated with putty and shells made by soo-numb-er-two about 13 years ago.

The wastepaper basket beside my bed was skilfully designed, crafted and painted by Jamie and proudly presented to me for Christmas 10 years ago. No matter that it's the only wastepaper basket in South Africa built like a car, with the left rear wheel missing. It's unique.

Over the years, Nicky has made Christmas clothes hangers of various shapes and kinds.

Pillow

The pillow I sleep on is made of dead pantihose resuscitated by Nicky and turned into a charming bulky head rest. “Happy Christmas, Ma,” she'd said at the time. “It's specially designed for you to rest your head between the lumps.”

My husband wears a pair of socks knitted by Barry and he carries a wallet stitched by Ralph. Unfortunately Ralph forgot to leave an opening for bank notes.

Jamie welded a braai fork at primary school and we always use it. Who cares if the prongs are crooked? It's the thought that counts.

Christmas to me is cakes that never work, trees bowed down with cut-out stars and balls painted unevenly and stuck with glitter that comes off on everything.

Christmas is the dogs wearing tinsel collars, Jamie (the only baker in the family) mixing a Christmas pudding, eating most of the mixture while making it and using 1c pieces instead of 5c because of the rate of inflation.

Christmas is everybody — even my husband — smiling ALL the time and wishing everybody well.

Which makes one think, perhaps the spirit of Christmas is still there.

And a Happy Christmas to you, too.

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