The First Christmas I Can Remember and The First Christmas I Wanted To Remember Forever

The first memory I have of registering Christmas was looking forward to putting my pillow case by the Christmas tree on Christmas eve, just as my sisters had done, but being told “oh we don’t do that any more”.  Oh.  I guess round about that time I discovered that Santa Claus didn’t really exist.  Alas for my innocence.  I was about four, I think.

Strangely, though, I don’t remember any Christmas days until I was about 13.  My sisters had both been given guitars, and I’d taught myself to play on one of theirs, but I soooo wanted my own.  Sheer lust is what it was.  I asked for one for Christmas, and I remember being told I’d get one.  Oh my god, how amazing the anticipation was.

We were going on holiday from Zimbabwe down to South Africa, to see my grandmother and my Dad’s brother et al.  We drove all the way, and the miles flew for me as I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed.  I was in a heightened state when we got there, and I’m sure my eyes were glazed over as I greeted everybody.

Christmas eve I couldn't sleep.  Well, til long after midnight, anyway.  Then suddenly I was waking up and it was light!  I leaped out of bed and ran through to the lounge, to find my promised guitar amongst all the presents under the tree.  Imagine my surprise when there was nothing big enough.  My heart dropped out of my body.

Everybody came into the lounge, and I said in a small, hesitant voice, “is my guitar here?” but I knew.  Then my parents brought out this old banjo that had been in the family for a while but which nobody could remember playing, and they gave to me instead.  Darling, aren’t you lucky?

Oh oh oh I thought my heart would break.  Trying to show enthusiasm, trying to smile, trying not to cry.  That Christmas was a bust.  But never say die to this girl.  Throughout the whole next year I played my sisters’ guitars relentlessly until I’m sure they were sick to death of me.  And then I had a brainwave.

My birthday is at the end of the year.  So I bribed my parents.  If they would give me a guitar it could be my birthday present for years, and my Christmas present.  I begged and begged and begged until they finally gave in.  And my, my, what a day that was, when I went into the shop to choose my own, my very own, beautiful guitar.

I remember the shop, a department store.  The guitars were upstairs.  Up I went, heart beating, happiness exuding from every atom of me.  My guitar called out to me.  It was gorgeous.  It was love at first sight.  And it was worth all the heartache and waiting and disappointment.  Love always is.