Reflections on Christmas long ago — it was a very different time, a harder, but simpler living place.

At the age of seven, even viewed through a veil of scepticism about the existence of Santa Claus, Christmas was a very special time for our family. There were just four of us children; the others were aged five, four, and one. Three more children would show up later on down the road. We had moved from Spanish Point two years earlier, leaving a house with an enormous front yard, or so we thought. A visit back there sixty years later, revealed a tiny cottage nestled on postage stamp size lot.

But a big move it was, then, to a half-acre yard, tons of room for chickens, ducks, rabbits, dogs, cats and an old, rickety, termite-prone rundown house. A hand pump for the only water (no faucets) in the kitchen was fuelled by a single 500-gallon water tank. The dwelling was of its time, very primitive: punky walls, semi-serviceable wooden windowsills, no closets, single light (or none in every room), and a single toilet. We did not care — what we realised was that only two children had to share a bedroom and we did not have to use an outhouse like some of our friends up the hill.

The centre of that home, our kitchen did not remotely resemble the gourmet-traffic-aisle-patterns of today’s homes replete with microwave, convection, and barbecue ovens, dishwasher, ice and cold water refrigerators and freezers. Moreover, it was some time before the hand pump was replaced with real live water running from a tap. We are accustomed to those conveniences now, even feeling entitled to them. Although mostly, we realise that kitchens in our modern society are used more for heating quick prepackaged food than down home-prepared meals. We are now too busy with social media networking, frenetic mobility connecting, and in this tough economic environment, working every minute just to make ends meet.

But, back then the kitchen was the shining light at the end of a school day, the centre of our universe, along with our mother cooking up a storm. Old Bermuda houses are like Bermuda weather: damp, and incredibly cold in winter. For children, there was nothing more welcoming than opening the back door to the warmth of that kitchen, the fragrant smells of soon-to-be served dinner, perhaps, pea soup, chop suey, scalloped potatoes, spaghetti (all stretcher comfort foods) and some wonderful cinnamon-based, or buttery pound-cake dessert treat. Many mothers did not work outside the home then. They provided a base of learned self-sufficiency, comforting presence and the ever-constant kitchen rituals upon which so many memories are evolved. We absorbed these family scenes without understanding what they truly would mean in future years. Christmas was coming, as it does every year. So with four children, a home needing major renovations, a mortgage, a Dad who was self-employed and rode a pedal bicycle to work, no automobile, and precious little else, our mother became the ultimate scrounger and inventor of recycling. It is difficult to recall in much detail what we received for Christmas in those days, but what we do remember is that the tree was surrounded by presents and every child had at least six to open. Many of presents were made by hand, or redeployed from someone else’s toy box.

In that context, nothing has changed, clothes as gifts were even then not interesting, pyjamas even worse, but books, toys and games were desperately craved. During the first summer at our new old home, I had learned to ride my father’s bicycle, by crouching underneath the cross bar, gripping the handlebars and balancing at an odd angle racing down the hill — holding on for dear life. Speed. Going where you wanted. That Christmas, outside the front door stood a girl’s one-speed pedal bike complete with a wicker basket. I never knew where our mother found this bike. It was not new, but it was mine!

Afterward, our mother always put on a huge homemade Christmas dinner, almost always inviting someone who had no one, to sit (and eat) through the brawling of four noisy children. Mostly, this strange company did not seem to mind our antics, it probably made them thankful to head home to their own serene surroundings.

Our Church, at that time, had an established Christmas party tradition, always held the first Sunday after Christmas. For me, this was the frosting on the cake mitigating the let-down after all the Christmas gifts were opened. At the party, every child received a present from Santa himself, and the long-awaited stocking bag full of candy. In the toe of the bag rested one orange (no seeds), and one red, juicy red five-dimpled apple. In a child’s mind, the church presents were OK, but those stockings were wonderful. I had never seen an apple and an orange that were so perfect, all for me to eat and not to share. While this type of imported fruit was becoming more commonly available in Bermudian grocery stores, our mother never bought such costly imported items.

It was many years later that I was able identify them as navel oranges and Washington State apples. But, back then, little did we know that our own fruit trees planted by our father had better, healthier, fresher fruit. We wanted the store-bought kind because they looked so perfect, they must be the best. Those Church parties lasted for another five years, each time the eagerly awaited stocking with one apple and one orange was given again.

Then one year, the Church Christmas party just stopped. An era was over, but I remember that special Christmas with the new (hand-me-down) bike like it was yesterday.

Today we consider it our right to choose multiple varieties of many kinds of food, clothing, cars, homes, jewellery, careers, and vacations. Blithely and confidently, we assume that these things will always be there.

Ours for the taking!

But what if you only had a choice of an apple, an orange, or a bag of candy? Would your lives be somehow diminished, or would you feel finally complete, living simply so that others may simply live?

Remember this holiday season there are those who do not have choices. It does not matter what is there to choose; they will not be able to have it, whether the cause through sickness, economic deprivation, sublimation of human rights, misfortune, or war.

Consider taking the proceeds of one gift and choose to give it to someone else less fortunate.

You could be the one to make the difference, in helping them to reach the same plateau as the rest of us — that is having the right to choose — to live free in the land of plenty.

In memory of our mother, Anna Clarine Sawyer

Christmas Blessings, In the Year of Our Lord, 2013. Martha Harris Myron

Martha Harris Myron CPA PFS CFP (USA) JP is a Bermudian journalist and cross border financial planning specialist focused on offshore financial perspectives, particularly the challenges for international citizens living, working and straddling the North Atlantic pond: United States, Canada, United Kingdom, Europe, and the island of Bermuda, the premier international finance centre.

President: Pondstraddler Life (tm) Consultancy

www.pondstraddler.com Contact martha@pondstaddler.com

The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author alone, and not The Royal Gazette. This article is intended for general educational purposes only and cannot be used for specific individual tax, investment, or retirement advice, nor can this article be relied upon for any personal financial planning purposes.