My sentimental family Christmas

I only ever remember him as Uncle Terry.
He was my grandfather’s brother, and we only ever saw him once a year – at Christmas.
Maybe he was married at some point, but I never recall him turning up to lunch with anyone else. Just him. And a bag of treats.
A six pack of beer in one hand and candy bars in the other, all pulled from the passenger seat of a Chrysler Royal.
The way I remember it, Christmas Day was like clockwork.
They’re the things which made “tradition”, the same year-in, year-out. And it worked. It made everyone happy, even those who were otherwise caught up with life.
I don’t even know what Uncle Terry did for a living. I didn’t ask, and haven’t until this day. But with a car like that, I fantasised that we had wealthy blood.
I seem to recall my grandfather not liking him much.
But they got on. It was Christmas. Everybody got on.
Other relatives wouldn’t stay for lunch. They’d stop in during the morning to give gifts to the children and share a drink, usually beer, with the adults.
My grandparents were the hosts. They’d put cheese, cheerios, some home-made dip and crackers on the table, along with some mixed nuts.
They’d serve drinks in the good glasses, the only time I’d seen them outside a display cabinet in the corner of their dining room.
Lunch had been cooking the whole morning, and featured a ham with pineapple rings stuck to its side. Inside the holes sat glace cherries.
There wasn’t a turkey, but my grandmother would cook two chickens which was plenty for a group of about 10 people who gathered – adults at a big table, and children sitting around a makeshift table to the side.
My grandfather’s annual joke was the same every year, to warn children not to swallow the sixpence from the pudding or he’d go broke.
If you found one, you’d keep it. And that was a good-sized bag of lollies in those days.
The afternoon would be occupied by a cricket match with a tennis ball and an oil drum for stumps, after which some members of the family would wander off to be part of dinner elsewhere.
Now, it’s our turn to host Christmas. The numbers are the same, but the faces have changed and the roles are now different.
We are now the hosts, and we’ve modified a few things.
The charcuterie board now has a selection of meats, crackers, fruit and cheeses.
Relatives we don’t normally see might call, but they don’t visit anymore.
We won’t cook the chickens, rather we’ll buy them the day before and heat them with pre-packed gravy.
We’ve replaced the plum pudding with a pavlova full of fresh fruit, and we’ve ditched the tradition of hiding coins inside the children’s food.
The cricket match will be played, still with a tennis ball. A wheelie bin now acts as the stumps, a fitting replacement for the rusty option of old.
My brother, who I’ve had my moments with, will probably impress the grandchildren when he arrives in his Tesla, six-pack of whisky and dry under one arm, and chocolate for the children under the other.
I’m convinced Uncle Terry became his role model.
Plenty has changed after 60 years, but the sentiment of a family Christmas remains remarkably similar.
Good food, generally good company, and a group of people who – for one day at least – will make the effort to get on.
Wanda loves our family Christmas, all our children and grandchildren under one roof. At the end, we’ll tell each other we must spend more time together, although we secretly know that won’t happen.
Until next year.
But that’s what makes this time of year so special.
Hey Wanda, did you know some people put a cooked chook in a duck which they then put inside a turkey? You’ll stick to the barbecued chooks, you say?
Fair enough.
Merry Christmas to all, and a joyous new year.