Together, one way or another, at Christmas

Christmas is something that changes — sometimes slowly, sometimes sharply — as one ages.

As a child, I barely slept on Christmas Eve, so excited I was by the prospect of opening my stocking in the morning.

I would lie there, stock-still, as my mother tiptoed into my bedroom at midnight, gently laying the present-crammed, ladder-ridden old pantyhose at the base of my bed. It was indescribably thrilling.

There were countless traditions we children delighted in — dressing the tree, warbling away at carol services, writing letters to Santa Claus (thank you NZ Post for delivering our lists so diligently).

There was something so delightful, so magical, so utterly childlike (in the best possible way) about Christmas.

These days, I am in the third decade of my life. I was indignant — almost apoplectic with shock — when my mother announced that I was too old for a stocking this year (I cajoled my sister-in-law to organise one for me).

Our Christmas tree this year is a rather dry and bedraggled kahikatea branch, wedged between two crumbling concrete slabs, and festooned with the odd shell and paper chain.

My mother and youngest brother have moved to a new house and there were no carol services this year. Instead, on Monday, we attended my father’s memorial service — the unveiling of his headstone, almost a year to the day from his funeral.

To be quite honest, I can barely remember Christmas last year. I don’t recall what gifts I received, if any.

I don’t know if I gave any.

I don’t remember what I wore, what I ate, where we went.

Last year’s Christmas passed in a haze of jetlagged wooziness, Covid fever, and grief. It was so utterly un-Christmas-like that I have simply erased it from my memory.

It has been a year since my father died. It has been 10 years since my little brother died.

The Christmas I’ve just experienced was nothing like that I revelled in as a child.

The years have trundled on by, I have aged, and two of the people I love best in the world are no longer with me.

I recently rewatched Love Actually, that schmaltzy Richard Curtis Christmas film so beloved of millennials and anyone with a heart (or an affection for Bill Nighy).

That film has something for everyone — Kiera Knightley as a blushing bride, Liam Neeson as a grieving widower and awkward stepfather, Colin Firth as a bumbling, heartbroken writer, and Nighy as an ageing rocker.

Set in London during the weeks leading up to Christmas, Love Actually explores the complexities of love in its many incarnations, from unrequited longing to strained familial bonds, from the joys of first love to the comfort of old friendships.

But the most important message throughout the film is the magic of Christmastime and the unique opportunity it offers people for expressing their love to those most important to them.

As Hugh Grant’s slightly awkward yet charming character puts it, "If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around."

And Christmas this year — although it was so very different from the Christmases I enjoyed growing up — was utterly lovely and full of love. We rose early (there being no choice in the matter thanks to excitable younger siblings and my nephew Tucker) and spent several hours unwrapping presents and bickering over gifts in a White Elephant game, sharing in a riot of fun, laughter and delightful chaos.

I sat at the dining room table amidst a veritable mountain of chocolates, sweeties and icing bags, meticulously putting together and decorating a gingerbread house.

My little nephew hollered from his vantage point upon his father’s shoulders, and my sweet niece looked adorable in her felt reindeer-antlers.

By mid-morning, the house was filled with the aroma of fresh pancakes and Nutella, and the younger children were engrossed in their new board games, forming and obliterating alliances in equal measure.

It was sunny and muggy, and in the afternoon, we all piled into our beaten-up farm Jeeps and headed to Jones Landing on the banks of the Waikato River.

There was shrieking and splashing as children jumped off the docks, trying to out-bomb each other. We swam out to the little island and swung ourselves out over the river via a tattered old swing-rope.

A little boy lost his beachball and I almost drowned battling the current, trying to retrieve it. (I returned it to him and he promptly lost the ball again).

My brother’s working dogs became the unwilling stars of the show, providing piggy-back rides and showing off their herding skills with the niece and nephew, playing rough-and-tumble with the older boys, and trying to sneak the leftover chicken from lunch.

And my father and brother were there still — not in person, sitting around the table, or hurling themselves into the rough-and-tumble in front of the Christmas tree — but there regardless, in the memories and recollections of the family.

We talked about how Dad would be purple at the lack of structure or proper meal times, how John would have been hopeless at charades, how both of them would have demolished the roast chicken and gingerbread house.

It was a lovely, silly, chaotic day, very different from the Christmases of my childhood, but equally enjoyable, despite the absences. And you know what? Love actually was all around.

Season’s greetings everyone.

— Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.