In keeping with the Christmas Season, I share this excerpt from my book “Grass Street and Later Memories.”
It’s a time like no other; when hearts melt, and wallets breathe. Nature is at her best behaviour. The heat and humidity of summer are replaced by dew-filled mornings, turquoise skies, and a pine-fresh, Christmas-tree, fragrance. Yes indeed! It’s beginning to look, smell and sound, a lot like Christmas!
News that M & C’s Toy Shop will soon be open sends us into a wild frenzy. We’d been waiting a lifetime for that grey cloth to be pulled down from the show window. Now, our desires and imaginations are running wild. John Joseph (JJ) is expecting a pair of authentic Roy Rogers pistols, with pearl handles. Roderick Charles is yearning for a machine gun like that used by Audie Murphy in the movie “To Hell and Back”. Most of us can only dream, but dreaming is the best part of Christmas. Like last year, our eyes and ears will be assaulted by a wide array of multi-coloured, plastic and metal toys such as ‘choo -choo” trains, cars, trucks, fire engines, walking policemen, and astronauts.
Mamma is calling from the drawing room for someone to hold the tape, so she can measure the floor. She’d seen linoleum with a beautiful flower pattern at J.Q Charles and thinks it will go perfectly with the curtains that she’d just bought, after much sacrifice.
Time marches on. National Day (December 13) has arrived. After the inebriating strains of j’ouvert have drifted away, we take in the parade of the uniformly dressed police and paramilitary, as they flash their kiwi-nourished boots in unison, along the Chaussee’ Road. They’re led by the baton-wielding Sargeant Spooner, whom it is rumoured, has only one pair of black pants. We follow the parade to the Police Barracks on Jeremie Street and journey further down towards the Prince Alfred Basin for a day of fun, laughter and sports events.
At one end of the Basin stands a towering, glistening utility pole. The day before, it was firmly set in sand, diligently sand-papered, and liberally smeared with tons of grease. Atop the pole dangles a huge, salted ham and a bottle of whiskey. A roar of enthusiasm goes out from the colossal crowd as a musclebound man, dressed only in a “kalsonn” and discoloured by white sand that he has deliberately rubbed onto his body, embraces the base of the greasy pole. He beckons to another, slighter man to climb onto his shoulder. They are trying to build a human ladder. Every collapse of the ladder is met with a spontaneous blaring of “he-gas” or “he-salop”. But the men are relentless in pursuit of their prize, and eventually, the ham and whiskey are lifted off, to loud cheers.
With the greasy pole completed, the crowd surges towards an enclosure, where three, blind-folded men are lunging madly, in the direction of grunting and squealing sounds coming from two of Mr. Sullivan d’Auvergne’s greased pigs. The crowd is beside itself as the petrified and enraged animals charge at their tormentors. Another hail of “gasses” and “lops” go out. Occasionally, there is a scramble among the crowd as the pigs threaten to break through the wooden enclosure. About an hour later, it’s all over, as the now exhausted pig lies breathless beneath the sweltering bodies of the blindfolded men.
We awaken on a cool Monday morning to find that Mama is ready with a long list of chores to occupy us for the week. Today is to be devoted to removing the old carpet and scrubbing the floors. Tomorrow would be taken up with washing the glasses and plates in the wagonette. Armed with a knife in one hand — to pry stubborn pieces of linoleum and “kaka wavet” from the floor — and a shoe in the other hand, to terminate any creatures beneath the carpet, we gingerly take off the old linoleum. As we work, we sing along to Christmas carols played on the radio, more to drown out the blasts of match bombs, “frogs” and “ammos” and other ammunition being set off by our friends outside.
We’re delighted to learn that our acolytes dean, Mr. Victor Reyes has scheduled rehearsals for “midnight mass.” It’s an opportunity to stroll around town and imbibe the sights and sounds of Christmas. After rehearsal, we make our way “downtown”. What is normally a safe walk has become a hazardous enterprise. Survival requires us to negotiate a traffic minefield. People are leaving stores with a wide variety of goods perched on their heads. We step aside to observe a solemn procession of cattle, mooing and snorting as they make their way to the abattoir. Our hearts go out to them, but our bellies patiently await their demise.
Columbus Square is a hive of activity. Along its outer perimeter, legions of expectant “amigos” have allowed the contents of their “greeps” to spill onto the grass, exposing brightly coloured fabrics, heavily scented perfumes, and home decorations. On the other side of the tall, thick hedge, boys and girls are showing off their brand-new toys.
Before we know it, it’s Christmas Eve. Our nostrils are assailed by the competing scents of cooked ham, linoleum, pine-scented Christmas trees, the kerosene/coconut oil/turpentine mixture, used to clean the furniture in the drawing room and dining room, and of course, the ever-present “jeyes”. Today, Daddy places the last of his liquor supplies — dry and sweet Vermouth, Madeira Wine, Gin and Lime Cordial under his bed, along with the Martini, peanuts and sweet drinks. His suit is being aired outside. As usual, he’s to sing the “Pastores” at Midnight Mass and is practising aloud. Every now and then Mama would join him in the chorus. Strangely, it is not until that song is sung at Midnight Mass that I become convinced, Christmas Day has arrived.
It’s only 9 o’clock and already the brightly decorated Cathedral is packed: all but the first ten rows or so. These are owned by wealthy parishioners who normally stroll in just before service begins. A murmur of disapproval rises from the back of the Church, as a plump, elderly woman confidently steps up the centre aisle. Apparently, in her hurry to get to Church, she had forgotten to remove the huge curlers from her hair. On being told, she slinks out of the church, too embarrassed to return. Now, only the lusty sounds of the pipe organ occupy the hearts and minds of believers. Mr. Leton Thomas is giving a pre-Mass rendition of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” while Stephen “koko klosh” Henry and Miss Lawrence put the final touches on things, straightening a candlestick here and lighting a candle there. To the far left of the church is a re-creation of The Nativity, with Mary staring adoringly at the baby Jesus nestled in her arms, and a somewhat bemused Joseph and the Three Wise Men, standing amidst the sheep, bearing testimony to the miracle of Christ’s birth.
Bishop Gachet’s perfunctory, nasal sermon goes by quickly. Before we know it, Midnight Mass is over. The “bang, balang, palang” sounds of the bells, join a lusty rendition of “Joy to the World.”
Christmas Day has arrived. Inside and outside the church, friends and strangers alike bestow hugs and handshakes on each other with great relish. Me? I’ve got only sleep, a ham-filled breakfast and toys, on my mind.
Mama puts together a sumptuous breakfast, as only she can. After that, it’s gift-opening time. I come away with an “ammos gun” a “yoyo” and a packet of star lights. Now, it’s time for the frightening excitement of “Papa Jab,” “Toes” and “Pye Bannann”. Through the grapevine, we learn that Everton will again be playing “Toes” this year, and so we make our way to his home at Morne Du Don. The wave of screaming children heading in our direction tells us “Toes” is already at it. With the customary incantations of, “Repo… Reppopopooeee, Repoee… GREEAAHHH,” Toes charges at us and we flee in fearful glee. This ritual goes on right through the Christmas season. Reluctantly, we pull ourselves away, to make the customary rounds to elderly family members, to collect our Christmas money and toys, and to eat fruit cake and slices of ham drowned in “Lea and Perrins” sauce. We use the money to buy ammos for our toy guns at Mr. “My Money” and to see movies like “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” “Suns of Thunder” and “Swiss Family Robinson” at Gaiety and Clarke Cinemas.
Oh, the many joys of Christmas!
Merry Christmas everyone!