Sherry and Sprouts
As a child,
Christmas Eve meant the arrival
of two wonderful, bearded men;
Father Christmas
and (more importantly) my Grandad.
Grandad’s presence meant the beginning
of Christmas in earnest —
Mum announced we were finally allowed
to eat the chocolates
hanging on the tree in temptation’s sight.
Grandad would sit, peeling Brussels sprouts
and sipping on a sherry with my mother
as they prepared for the main event.
One of the seats became “Grandad’s chair”
for the course of his festive stay —
and I would gladly give up my bedroom
to host him for those precious days,
camping on the floor of my sisters’ bedroom
and revelling in the novelty.
On occasion, he was the guest of honour for a “show”:
my brother the long suffering Rudolph,
brown sheet draped over him
as us girls took directorial control.
Music was cranked up and we warbled
out of tune renditions of “Silent Night”.
As a teenager, the excitement hadn’t lessened —
while Father Christmas no longer held such a thrall,
my Grandad’s arrival did: as soon as he entered
it was the start of my favourite 48 hours of the year.
I’d open a tin of Roses, Elton John as a soundtrack
and the sherry would be cracked out.
I’d sit, thrilled to have such a warm and willing audience;
filling him in on every detail of my school life.
His great grandchildren delighted in
telling “Grandad with a beard”
all about the toys they were hoping to get,
and his shining eyes bestowed kindness and laughter.
The last Christmas we spent together
I gamely tasted the whiskey macks he was so fond of,
pulling a face of disgust and turning back
to Lambrini and lager.
Now, we raise a glass of single malt whiskey
to him each Christmas Eve —
misty eyed and occupied
with memories of the epicentre
of our childhood Christmases.
****
The title of this piece is really how the poem began; I will always think of my Grandad at Christmas, whenever anybody mentions sherry or sprouts. My childhood Christmases were truly defined by the presence of my Grandad and with this piece I hope I have paid tribute to him by showing what a wonderful influence he had on our family's life. I remember him with immense joy and I feel very lucky to have spent the first 19 years of my life with such a wonderful grandparent. I think the themes of nostalgia, loss, love and warmth will resonate for many as we remember loved ones during the festive season.
****
Ellen Clayton
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