Once Upon a Time at Christmas
by Alice L Domagalski
It was 1939, and Christmas was coming!
Grandma had made the puddings, five of them securely tied in their calico cloths and hung from the rafters of the wide south-facing verandah. Rich in dried fruit with a dash of brandy, they were boiled for hours, and now left to season and mature; gifts for her family.
The Christmas cake too, freshly baked and smelling of spices, rested in a large square tin on the top shelf of the kitchen dresser. Later it would be taken down, and the older girls would ice and decorate it with white icing, and red and green jelly beans cut and shaped to represent holly. The finishing touch—a decorative and shiny colourful strip of fringed paper, called a ‘cake skirt’.
The shops in main street had come alive. Their centre display tables were filled with many and varied gift suggestions. The windows were filled with toys, books and puzzles to entice and fill every small child with wonder. Best of all was the little girls tea set displayed in the casement window of the Eudunda Farmers’ Cooperative Store. Every small girl had set her heart on owning it.
The year before it had been a doll house, complete with miniature furniture and a working electric light. Today’s battery-operated toys barely suffer a second glance, but in the year of 1938 this was ‘wonderful’, and how I longed to own it.
Ours was a large family, ‘rich in Love and poor in pence’. Only one little girl could own that coveted gift, and she didn’t live at our house. We were not completely forgotten; I remember a set of gardening tools, a skipping rope and story books, coloured pencils and the red net Christmas Stockings filled with popcorn, small cheap toys and a comic book. And my very first doll.
Now a year later, the first year of the second world war, it was a tea set which charmed me. My walk to and from school took only ten minutes or so. The way was straight, no bends no curves. But at every opportunity I did the forbidden thing—walked the long way home, quite out my way, just to gaze with longing at the tea set.
I had hoped—yes, and prayed—for the doll house, so while I viewed these china pieces and their attractive box with admiration, it was also with little if any hope of them ever being mine.
And then one day it was gone, no longer proudly displayed for all to see. “Oh yes,” said my best big sister, Daphne, “I was there when a lady from Stone Hut”, (a small town to our north) “came in and bought it”.
“People who live in Stone Hut should shop at Stone Hut”, a disappointed and grumpy child complained.
The build up to the Christmas Day excitement continued, with the usual influx of visitors from Broken Hill. Not so many Christmas cards were received, as is the tradition of today; although I do remember beautiful cards arriving from my father’s family in England.
Christmas carols and the Christmas story were sung and told at Sunday School and at Church. From the Sunday School Christmas party, each child received a welcome small gift to take home. And at the Christmas Tree Social held in the Lodge Hall, our names were included to receive a gift, through the generosity of an old family friend—a balloon to treasure. All Christmas festivities were full of games and fun, supper and lollies.
Although the advent of ‘Carols By Candle Light’ came many years later, all families enjoyed the beautiful ‘time honoured’ songs of Christmas sung around the piano—or as with us, around mum’s little Cottage Organ.
Now it’s Christmas Day, 1939: in just four weeks’ time I would turn eight years old.
The pillow case at the end of my bed contained something, I can no longer remember what.
My mother called to me from the bedroom opposite, using, the family name for me, “Kitty!”, and told me to go to the kitchen and very carefully—”Carefully mind, pick up the brown paper parcel from the kitchen table. Be very careful and don’t drop it”.
I think I knew then what it was. My precious grandmother, who lived two doors away, and never in Stone Hut, had bought the tea set for me, and Daphne had been the messenger who told the shop assistant to put it aside for purchase. My grandmother, who had been a widow for many years, had only recently been granted a pension which enabled the purchase.
The tea set has become a family heirloom. My youngest sister, who was born when I was eleven years old, remembers with delight the tea parties she and I had as special treats. Never a piece was broken, until two little girls—my daughters—quarrelled over who was to have the honour of washing up.
One small plate was the casualty. It doesn’t show in the photo (pictured), but it is glued, none too elegantly, with Tarzan’s Grip!
I also recall a memory of public Carol singing. Very early during the war, perhaps in 1941, some young ‘Church People’ toured the town on the back of a truck with blacked out head lights, and sung the much loved carols outside the hospital and in front of homes around town.
The 1940s turned the lives of my family completely around. Ten years later, I was a teenager, living a very different life on Eyre Peninsula, but the memory of that night, when a group of young people sang songs of peace and love in wartime, stayed with me. So with the blessings of our church Minister, and the use of dad’s truck, the Methodist Youth sang ‘Joy To The World’ around the small, dusty town called Wudinna.
I hope my Christmas Story has revived happy memories for you.
To all Resthaven management and staff, and to all volunteers, fellow residents and families, I wish you the true blessings and joy of Christmas, and a new year of peace and prosperity.