The Spirit of Christmas Past

Every year from the age of ten my brother and I bought my Grandmother an apron for Christmas. Do you know the type I mean? A jolly rectangle of printed cotton, gathered onto two long ties, with a handy patch pocket on the front. Clean and neatly pressed, my Grandmother's pocket would usually contain a clean, white handkerchief and a shilling for the meter. She wore an apron every day for as long as I can remember, to keep her frock from ‘spoiling’ she told us, especially on Christmas day when she would wear her 'good silk'. The surprise level upon opening the same gift every Christmas was zero, but I know for a fact that it was appreciated and used.

My brother and I used to carefully select our annual apron, taking into account things like my Grandmother’s favourite colour (blue), the colour of her kitchen (in our eyes she is intrinsically linked to food) and the dresses we saw her wear. I always went for a flower print apron, usually in shades of blue or lilac, which would now be called ‘vintage’ but was then called a ‘floral sprig’. My brother alternated between puppies or kittens, usually sitting in some sort of wicker basket. After unwrapping our latest gift she would thank us before taking off the apron she was wearing to replace it with the new one. Giddy with delight at the success of our choice, my brother and I would caper around her to admire the apron from all angles.

Before I go any further, it is important to note that no woman in my family would ever wear an apron outside of the home. In my Grandmother’s opinion, aprons were firmly for cooking and housework only. Should a door knock, the apron was whipped off and hung up with the tea towels before opening. The very notion of public apron wearing would make my Grandmother’s eyebrows shoot up and she’d exchange knowing looks with my mum about the ‘type of woman’ who wears an apron in public. According to her, this is deviant behaviour that ranks alongside ‘not making an effort’ and wearing your slippers to go to the shop. Sound extreme? I agree, and judgemental on those of us who have nipped out wearing no make-up, UGG boots and pyjama bottoms (only once, mum – I promise!), but if I were to say the 2016 version is to go to church on Christmas Eve in a pair of skimpy knickers and a Santa hat, you will understand what an outrageous breach of protocol she believed outdoor-apron-wearing to be.

Aprons’ are a wonderful thing. In fact I’d go so far as saying that I still think they are the perfect Christmas present. I can say this with all the assurance of someone who has never owned one, but has wiped their hands and tears on other peoples. An apron has also been used as a cape for dressing up, a cover to tie over my hennaed hair to help warm it up, an oven glove, a tea towel and finally as a sick cloth for my small babies.  How many other things have so many uses for which they were not intended?

This year, whilst unpacking the decorations and putting up the fairy lights a discovery was made. There, wrapped around some old glass baubles, was one of my Grandmother’s old aprons. Battered, faded and with more than a few darned holes, I can smell the Christmas of my youth if I sniff hard enough. My lovely grandmother is gone, another permanent vacancy at the Christmas dinner table, adding poignancy and wistfulness to procedures as we raise our glass to absent friends.

So in homage to her and her many words of wisdom, over my new party dress, specially bought for Christmas Day, I shall be wearing the apron. Freshly laundered once more and fragrant with starch, just the way she used to do it, I will have no fears about dripping gravy when to comes to getting the massive turkey out of the oven. Frank Sinatra and the boys will croon us a merry Christmas in the background, my sisters and I will irritate each other as we bustle about trying to be helpful but end up giggling over cocktails, my kids will look anguished as they realise they have eaten a ton of chocolate and dinner is being served and my brother will tease the babies of the family. My mum will preside over the head of the table and I, eager to please will serve her first whilst sending up a silent prayer that I haven’t overcooked the vegetables (again).

Around the table, each of us will sparkle, my lovely, clever siblings, who I argue, bitch and laugh with like no others. In the candlelight we will all be secretly wishing my dad was still here to carve and achingly miss him in ways anyone recently bereaved can understand. Four generations will sit down together, twenty of us in total, but whilst the apron is on I will fear no gravy splashes and enjoy the present revelries whilst holding tightly on to the spirit of Christmas past.

Merry Christmas everyone.