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| December 24, 2015 |
I was much too young to remember my first Christmas but I
do remember one from 1950 when I was 8. It was a torrid Buenos Aires summer
Christmas Eve. A few days before my father had sprayed our Christmas tree with
a can of Noma snow that my mother had obtained from her friends at the American
Embassy. Whatever it was that Santa Claus was going to bring me would not
happen until we came back from Misa de Gallo (rooster Mass or midnight Mass).
These Masses, around the corner from our house on Melián were held in a small
chapel. My father had had too much to drink and I was embarrassed to note that
he placed some mints in the collection basket.
When we finally got home my main present was a beautiful
Schuko model car racer. It was red and it was similar to the Maserati that Juan
Manuel Fangio drove. It had suspension and steering. Alas! I lost the wind-up
key. I was in tears. My father came up to me and said, “Alexander, Santa Claus
left me a spare key, just in case.” That first Christmas that I can remember is
also the last that I remember with my father.
Since then I have experienced good and sad Christmases.
One of the saddest was the one in December 1966 when I was returning to
Veracruz after two years in the Argentine Navy. I was the only passenger on
board the Argentine Merchant Marine (ELMA) Río Aguapey. It was a Victory Ship
that I subsequently, many years later found out had been built in the Burrard Shipyard
in Vancouver. We docked in New Orleans on Christmas Eve. I decided to explore
the French Quarter and Bourbon Street. I entered a bar that featured strippers.
This was my first time I ever saw an almost naked female. I ordered a Bourbon
whiskey which I did not like and the stripper danced mechanically like a robot.
I was depressed as I went back to my ship. Before calling it a night I played
some ping-pong with the young second officers. This was after we had a sumptuous
Christmas dinner that featured pre-dinner drinks, a different kind of wine for
every course and then Argentine Champagne and liqueurs. As a non-drinker I
forgot my depression and floated into a calm sleep.
Christmas 2015 went without a hitch. The granddaughters
behaved and the food was close to perfection. I started a baron of beef in our
new Jackson Grill and finished it (and the potatoes, onions and carrots) in the
oven. Rosemary made her signature Yorkshire pudding and I prepared the gravy.
For starter we had my homemade consommé. To the consommé my daughter Ale, my
son-in-law Bruce and I added a shot of very good La Guita Manzanilla Sherry. We
sipped the rest as we had our soup. For the main course that did include a big
salad an my homemade cranberry sauce (I use fresh squeezed oranges and nutmeg)
we tried an Argentine rosé Torrontés wine. Dessert was a beautiful apple pie
made by my younger daughter Hilary. There were plenty of sweets after. We then
opened the presents. To help smooth the whole process I had insisted on taking
our perennial Christmas family picture before dinner. Thanks to the Fuji-X-E1 I
downloaded the picture immediately and it was sharp and clear not like scanned
Polaroids of Christmases past.
But, all of us knew that this was to be our last Christmas
on Athlone Street. We have celebrated Christmas Eve there (here?) since 1986.
Rosemary and I both avoided looking at each other. We did not want to pass on
our deep melancholy for times that will never return.
Our Christmas tree was the tallest we have ever had. I
had to snip the leader as it bent under the ceiling. It was only one of three
trees that I found at Garden Works on 70 and Granville where I have purchased
all our trees. I bought the tree on December 22. It was nicely formed but sparse in its branches. Lauren
decorated it and because the tree was not dense the ornaments were visible in
all their glory. I liked this tree.
On Christmas Day I began the process of unmaking our home.
For me a home is a place with pictures on the wall. I removed a few pictures and
took them to our new house. As soon as the pictures were up I could sense the
transfer from one home to another. Homes are palpable entities that reflect
their owners. And like their owners they are born, they live and they die. That
process, while inevitably necessary, is a sad one. But then as our new house
becomes a home a new life is in the works and that is something happy to bring
into the new year.