 ... and a Tonka car carrier truck.
Let's face it. Christmas is for kids and wow, if you were anything like me, as a youngster you'd be beside yourself right about now with The Big Day less than a week away. The tree is up, some of the presents are already under it and you can tell there are more to come because the extra special ones you had on your list (that you delivered to your parents ages ago and have badgered them over ever since) aren't there yet, and you know that because the shapes of the ones under the tree at the moment don't match the things you've asked for. And it's almost too terrible to imagine a Christmas morning without those extra special presents waiting for you. In this picture - yes that is me, aged about five or six - I am sitting under the tree with a truck. This would probably have been one of our last Seattle, Washington Christmases before we jumped on the ship and immigrated to New Zealand. I am missing some front teeth but they were hardly a Christmas priority. Apparently I absolutely coveted this car carrying vehicle. I wanted it more than anything. It came with one white car and two pick up trucks, red and blue, that you could drive up a yellow ramp and into the truck. And this truck was built, man ... that's when Tonka toys were made of real metal, not plastic. This thing went the distance. It came to New Zealand with us when we moved here, and my best friend Milton who lived up the road from us in Murray's Bay called it the 'Big Bad Harley Truck'. In future years I was desperate to receive various things in accordance with my age at the time: new outfits for my Barbie and Ken dolls (sent to us from America - even more fabulous!), my first guitar (which for obvious reasons was hidden carefully until Christmas morning), an Osmiroid fountain pen, and a copy of Carole King's album Tapestry. When I was young I thought I would always want presents at Christmas. I simply could not imagine the day without ripping into wrappings and pulling out something stunning and wonderful that I could play with immediately, eat straight away, or put on a shelf and stare at in wonder. These days though it's heart warming and such fun to see other children carrying on the wonderful festive traditions we enjoyed as kids. In the few years prior to Mom's death, she and I had a special tradition, our 'Christmas nip' and I looked forward to that more than anything. We'd get up Christmas morning, open up the gifts, then Mom and I would repair to the kitchen, take out the bottle of fine single malt whiskey (Glenmorangie was usually on hand, Mom's favourite) and pour ourselves a short nip. We'd clink glasses, toast each other, the holiday, and the year that had been, down our shot, and begin preparing our Christmas Bissell breakfast of sausages, toast, and eggs. Mom is no longer here but I keep up the tradition of the Christmas nip. I'm often alone on Christmas morning, heading out later to join in festivities, and I take that quiet moment when the day is still and young to pour myself a shot, go outside on the deck, enjoy the view and raise my glass to the heavens in a toast to my Mom. That's Christmas.
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