My first entry on this Blog spot.
Every Sunday felt like a day-long party full of relatives, and Christmas would culminate as the day we’d have a grand feast before everyone went home to prepare for the New Year. In those days, that meant getting everything ready for school.
Christmas also became the day to celebrate all our birthdays. Four out of seven of us were born in December. So instead of having four separate celebrations, we made it one big party. There were always at least 50 people and more on this day.
SEASON OF SHARING
My mum was a caterer and cook extraordinaire, so numbers never fazed her. Her specialties were the entire classic Malay dishes usually meant for special occasions.
However, Christmas was always exciting because our menu changed. We went western. Out came the turkey, roast beef, lamb, mashed potato, steamed vegetables, pudding, sticky fruitcake and custard. Often enough there would also be a roast goose or her legendary itik golek.
Despite going western, my father always had his sliced chilli and soya sauce to go with his meal. He would always laugh and say, “You can take this Perlis boy to live in Scotland for 11 years but some things just don’t change.”
This was a time of feasting, bonding, gifting and sharing. In our youth, the peak of the whole thing was the presents, no matter how small. In those days, gifts were simple, and our lifestyles were not like what they are today. Life was less complicated.
END OF AN ERA
This tradition went on for years until we grew up and went our separate ways. Cousins did not stay over anymore. Many of us went abroad for further studies. Some started working and others got married and started their own families and traditions. Over the years, the numbers decreased, but the core family made it a point to meet.
When my parents became ill and weak in their twilight years, they did not have the strength to do all that they did before. We tried to keep it up, but I suppose we did not possess the will and spirit of our parents. After they passed away, 18 months apart from each other, we celebrated Christmas in a smaller, subdued way with the immediate family, at the same time, treasuring the memories of our youth and what used to be. When siblings met, we would recount those memories like we would strands of precious gifts from everyone that had dotted and coloured our lives.
We could see now that the gifts we received didn’t last and got lost along the way. What remained were those that were wrapped with laughter and made with love. It wasn’t the physical objects. Instead, it was all the precious moments and kinship.
The most precious of gifts from my parents was the consciousness of creating memories that last a lifetime. There won’t be a moment that will go by without us smiling or laughing at those memories.
MAKE MEMORIES
It was with this consciousness that I took every opportunity to make new memories with my parents in their final years, hoarding them for those years that they won’t be in my life, grabbing snippets of precious time with them when they were well enough to be lucid and jovial like their old selves.
Having the opportunity to care for your parents when they are ill makes you realise how very fleeting and fragile our lives can be. I found every excuse to keep them talking and telling me their stories. It gave them such pleasure to tell, and I listened with rapt attention.
I would take my parents for drives and we stopped for tea as and when we felt like it. When my mum became less mobile after recovering from her coma, I would sometimes pretend we were at the spa and I would give her a gentle massage and foot rubs right there in her room, complete with dimmed lights, scented candles and soft music.
Much as my parents enjoyed little gifts and treats of their favourite things, my father always said it wasn’t the gifts that delighted him as much as my coming over to see them. The gift was just an excuse for a visit.
Most of time it is not so much about what you buy for them as gifts, or what you do with them. What matters to them is that you are there with them, holding their hands and giving them your undivided and loving attention.
To me, that is the spirit of Christmas — the act of giving and the joy of receiving the gift of love. It transcends all physical limitations and barriers we put up for ourselves. Instead, it becomes a time for respect, reflection and gratitude. At the end of it all, memories are all that’s left.
CHRISTMAS is meaningful to me, not because of the religious significance, but it marks a time of the year when families get together.
It became the centre point of my family for many reasons. First of all, it always falls during the school holidays. From the time I could remember, December was always the month when relatives from the north, east coast and south would congregate at my parents’ house. Cousins would fill up the house for weeks.Every Sunday felt like a day-long party full of relatives, and Christmas would culminate as the day we’d have a grand feast before everyone went home to prepare for the New Year. In those days, that meant getting everything ready for school.
Christmas also became the day to celebrate all our birthdays. Four out of seven of us were born in December. So instead of having four separate celebrations, we made it one big party. There were always at least 50 people and more on this day.
SEASON OF SHARING
My mum was a caterer and cook extraordinaire, so numbers never fazed her. Her specialties were the entire classic Malay dishes usually meant for special occasions.
However, Christmas was always exciting because our menu changed. We went western. Out came the turkey, roast beef, lamb, mashed potato, steamed vegetables, pudding, sticky fruitcake and custard. Often enough there would also be a roast goose or her legendary itik golek.
Despite going western, my father always had his sliced chilli and soya sauce to go with his meal. He would always laugh and say, “You can take this Perlis boy to live in Scotland for 11 years but some things just don’t change.”
This was a time of feasting, bonding, gifting and sharing. In our youth, the peak of the whole thing was the presents, no matter how small. In those days, gifts were simple, and our lifestyles were not like what they are today. Life was less complicated.
END OF AN ERA
This tradition went on for years until we grew up and went our separate ways. Cousins did not stay over anymore. Many of us went abroad for further studies. Some started working and others got married and started their own families and traditions. Over the years, the numbers decreased, but the core family made it a point to meet.
When my parents became ill and weak in their twilight years, they did not have the strength to do all that they did before. We tried to keep it up, but I suppose we did not possess the will and spirit of our parents. After they passed away, 18 months apart from each other, we celebrated Christmas in a smaller, subdued way with the immediate family, at the same time, treasuring the memories of our youth and what used to be. When siblings met, we would recount those memories like we would strands of precious gifts from everyone that had dotted and coloured our lives.
We could see now that the gifts we received didn’t last and got lost along the way. What remained were those that were wrapped with laughter and made with love. It wasn’t the physical objects. Instead, it was all the precious moments and kinship.
The most precious of gifts from my parents was the consciousness of creating memories that last a lifetime. There won’t be a moment that will go by without us smiling or laughing at those memories.
MAKE MEMORIES
It was with this consciousness that I took every opportunity to make new memories with my parents in their final years, hoarding them for those years that they won’t be in my life, grabbing snippets of precious time with them when they were well enough to be lucid and jovial like their old selves.
Having the opportunity to care for your parents when they are ill makes you realise how very fleeting and fragile our lives can be. I found every excuse to keep them talking and telling me their stories. It gave them such pleasure to tell, and I listened with rapt attention.
I would take my parents for drives and we stopped for tea as and when we felt like it. When my mum became less mobile after recovering from her coma, I would sometimes pretend we were at the spa and I would give her a gentle massage and foot rubs right there in her room, complete with dimmed lights, scented candles and soft music.
Much as my parents enjoyed little gifts and treats of their favourite things, my father always said it wasn’t the gifts that delighted him as much as my coming over to see them. The gift was just an excuse for a visit.
Most of time it is not so much about what you buy for them as gifts, or what you do with them. What matters to them is that you are there with them, holding their hands and giving them your undivided and loving attention.
To me, that is the spirit of Christmas — the act of giving and the joy of receiving the gift of love. It transcends all physical limitations and barriers we put up for ourselves. Instead, it becomes a time for respect, reflection and gratitude. At the end of it all, memories are all that’s left.
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