Early Childhood Christmas Memories by Annie Erez

Celebrating Christmas has changed over the years, but one thing remains the same for many of us; it is a time for family.

My most vivid experiences with food as a celebration goes back to my early childhood memories of huge family gatherings and all the fuss, noise and hullabaloo that went with it. This was even more of a momentous occasion for Christmas and then even Easter and special anniversaries, mile stone birthdays and even funerals.

My maternal grandmother was a fantastic country cook. She was truly the Dragon Queen of the kitchen who would always tempt us kids with promises of the wonderful dishes she would make for us if she thought we deserved it. But woe betide anyone who “misbehaved”. Of course her idea of unruly naughty children was completely different to ours so we always had one of the youngest kids on guard duty when we were all together in case she saw something that she considered distasteful.

She was a tyrant and ruled Pop, and the farm and particularly her kitchen with a firm hand and was always complaining about children’s’ noise and lack of discipline. This was the generation where children were expected to be attentive to their elders and keep out of their way.

When we stayed at the farm before and during some exciting party we couldn’t contain our joy in meeting up with all our various cousins. Sometimes there were more than 20 of us kids of various ages and sexes.  We all loved to run wild around my grandparents old farm with its many fascinating old buildings and stir up the sheep, the dogs and poke faces and sticks at Grandpa’s caged parrots and all the other exotic feathered prisoners. Nana kept her special talking birds just inside the back door and it was an absolute no no to go near them. That was her rule anyway.

But the food was the one thing that would bring us inside. There were Nana’s special meat pies,with the thick flaky pastry and rich lamb meat filling, probably from some poor little lamb that we had recently met, huge chunks of beef, mutton and sometimes pork cooked either in the outside fireplace or in the big kitchen ovens. Then for desert homemade apple or other fruit pies and the sensational trifle with rich red jelly,sponge cake and topped off with thick farm cream. Of course no country gathering was complete without the light as cloud sponges with thick passion fruit icing and I especially loved the gooey lamingtons and my first introduction to custard slice made with Sao biscuits.

And Nana’s home baked bread. Oh the bread! It was magical to be near the kitchen when the big loaves were cooking and the little rolls tumbled off the trays onto the racks to cool.

But she always saved the best treats for Christmas. For weeks leading up to the end of December there was special fuss, cleaning and cooking and general mayhem.  Of course all the rellies contributed but Nana was the undisputed champion and got to tell everyone what they should make and bring. It was understood that Nana would supply the festive ham which had been cooked for hours in the big laundry copper and served with a delicious glaze with artistically arranged orange slices and other bits and pieces of unknown origin. There was always one or more of her specially bred and home killed turkeys and chickens. Sometimes we were expected to help with the cleaning and plucking of these poor chosen poultry which we all hated and would try to avoid in the days leading up to the Christmas party. The hot boiling water, the endless feathers and the yucky inside bits with all the work done under the big shade trees out the back of the kitchen but always in the relentless heat. Nana wasted nothing and used the feathers for stuffing into pillows and all the entrails and other gruesome bits were made into stock or fed to the always ravenous dogs.

Pop was the gardener and he supplied all the veggies from his fenced off special garden and most of the fruit from his precious orchard trees. I remember when I was very small hearing Pop with the rifle shooting at the rabbits or the possums or whatever unsuspecting creature was thinking of making a tasty meal from his patch. Bang, bang, bang he would go which caused a huge screech from all the nearby trees as the birds flew off in alarm. And then silence. This was followed very shortly by either a loud curse or boisterous hooting and hollering. Then a commotion as either Nana or someone else came running out to see what he had shot up. I remember watching Nana rushing out the back screen door with her hands and apron covered in flour yelling out,

“Bill, Bill did you get the buggers this time?” Often there were dead crows strung up on the fence looking at me with their sightless beady yellow eyes.

But these were wonderful hard working farmers and the generation when food was essential for any really successful gathering. The tables were set up on the wide veranda’s surrounding the house and were loaded with homemade goodies where everyone was expected to eat a least a small piece of everything. The adults had one area,(usually the coolest, and us children were supposed to make our mess elsewhere usually on the lawns under the big shade trees. And as children we would gorge ourselves nearly sick with the Christmas pudding to get as many threepence pieces as we could find. I remember a few that got swallowed but that is another story.

For those occasional extra big gatherings the open fronted machinery shed was cleared out and tables set up that could entertain hundreds of neighbours and family from near and far. This was when we watched a whole animal slowly cook in the big outside fire pits. There was always a more than adequate supply of alcohol to help the festivities along and sometimes people would camp overnight in their swags in the shed or in the back of their Utes. There was definitely no concerns for gluten intolerant, diary free, fat free, low carbohydrate or at the very worst; vegetarian.

This was my unique family’s way of marking any festive celebration but of course over the years traditions change and parts of the family dispersed and held their own gatherings.

These early childhood memories always come to the forefront when I think of families, food and celebrations and especially big crowded hot Christmases.

Happy Halloween! Here are two more samples of works from Logan Writers for your reading pleasure. Keep an eye out for the Special Halloween podcast with a spooky reading by Mitchell Tierney.

***

Halloween and the Day of the Dead – By Dallas Berge

The third time. The third knock on the door, the third group of costumed children (could you call these costumes?) expecting free sweets, despite the “Trick or treat?” ‘question’.

Jemima tried to be polite. “I’m sorry, we don’t celebrate Halloween here. We’re Seventh Day Adventists.” It was a lie, but it was better than losing it and telling the children, with their wide eyes and smiles, what she really thought.

Every year it was the same. This year would be different. After carefully closing the door (rather than slamming it), Jemima found a piece of paper on which she wrote ‘Sorry. We don’t celebrate Halloween here. Please do not knock. We wish you good luck in your door-to-door visits.’

It wasn’t always like this. Some years ago, Jemima had accompanied her own children, going from door to door, saying “Trick or treat?” to whoever opened the door. This was done through slightly gritted teeth, but just as Jemima had feigned excitement at seeing ‘Santa Claus’ in the local mall, and tried to interest, if not excite her children in visiting ‘Santa Claus’, she was not keen at that time to dampen their spirits with her personal disdain.

But her children were grown-ups now. There were no grandchildren yet. She hoped there would be soon, but she’d already tried to plant the idea in their heads and it hadn’t been well-received, especially by daughter Frances and her husband Joe.  Frances was hell-bent on advancing in her career, (what for? wondered Jemima… isn’t being a mother the most fulfilling experience a woman could have?); son Dean meanwhile, always looked daggers at her. She had no idea Dean and Emily were having problems conceiving.

The phone rang. Who could it be? thought Jemima.

“Hello, Jemima speaking.”

“Jemima Stubbs? It’s Jenna Fairfield from Crown School of English. We were wondering if you were still interested in hosting a student?”

It had slipped Jemima’s mind that she had signed up to be a homestay parent some months ago, and anyway, why would they want her, a widow in her 50’s, to host a student anyway? They had been very nice, of course. They seemed to like her, but that was back in April, and she hadn’t heard from the school since.

“Um, yes, of course”, Jemima replied.

“Well, we have a Mexican student arriving in a few days’ time. We had a host family but they had to pull out at the last minute. She’ll be arriving on November the 4th because she has to celebrate the Mexican ‘Day of the Dead’ with her family first. Would you be available and interested in hosting a student from November 4^th – November 20^th?”

“I’m definitely available then…”, Jemima began, “but if you don’t mind my asking, what on earth is the ‘Day of the Dead’?”

“Ah…”, Jenna replied. “It’s an important celebration for Mexican people. Look it up online. It could be a useful topic of conversation if you choose to accept the student.”

“I would love to host this student. Will you simply send me the details or is there something else you need?”

“Nothing right now. We’ll send you the details and the contract, and if you are happy, just sign and return it.”

“This sounds good. I look forward to receiving your email and I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Jemima. I’m sure both you and the student, Pilar, will get along well and it will be an enriching experience for both of you. I’ll email the details to you now. Goodnight.”

The call had been quite a surprise, so Jemima didn‘t know whether she was happy or perplexed at her own response. She had been hoping for a Japanese student – she had heard they were very polite and, as she was no longer accustomed to sharing her space, could only hope the student would be considerate and respectful.

Such short notice had left Jemima with little time to prepare, but the spare bedroom was always ready for the odd visit from her children, so there was not a lot to do. Apart from finding out what on earth the ‘Day of the Dead’ might be.

What Jemima read on Google astonished her. Preparing for a visit from the deceased? Expecting to go to a graveyard to laugh and enjoy memories of them? Nothing in Jemima’s church school education had prepared her for this. To Jemima, it seemed disrespectful. Who goes to a cemetery and has a party?

Although she hadn’t yet signed the contract, it was too late to back out now. She knew she was a last-minute choice, but if she didn’t host the student, who would?

And so Jemima took a decision. Not the decision to host the student – she had already made that, but a decision to visit her father’s grave, ready to celebrate, all on her own, without sadness but in a spirit of joy. She prepared some mementos of her long-passed father, bought some marigolds from a local florist’s, and went to the grave of a man she felt she had hardly ever known.

It was a lonely vigil (was it a vigil?) yet somehow Jemima managed to recall times of laughter, and although it was not something she would normally do, she stayed all night at the cemetery. Sometimes she laughed; other times she felt wrapped in sadness, almost overwhelmed by it, as if she had donned a very heavy coat. She went home, as the sun was rising and casting a tint of pink upon the sky.

Three days later, there was a knock on the door.

“Good morning, Jemima”, said Jenna. “This is Pilar. Pilar, this is your host mother, Jemima.”

Pilar simply smiled shyly.

And Jemima knew now that every decision she had made in the last 5 days had been the right one. There would be plenty to talk about.

***

Untitled by Alison Strachan

The moment he stepped through into the shopfront he knew something was off. The warm downlights usually made the store homely but the room was tense.

The nod of Peter’s head as he talked to the man in the suit near the front of the store told William who he was talking to. He clenched his jaw and turned from them, making his way to the counter in the centre of the room. His own son couldn’t wait to sell the land from beneath him but he wasn’t going to give in. Not while he was alive at least.

To make matters worse, the cursor blinked at William from the computer amidst a half-finished sentence in an email to Macquarie. He closed the window. It was easy enough to blame his age and poor eyesight for the loss of whatever information was held in that conversation.

He pretended to be busy when Peter joined him behind the counter.

“Playing solitaire?” His son gibed. His attempt at lightening the situation was betrayed by the way he rubbed the back of his neck.

William ignored him. It was childish, but it also felt good.

“The bookstore is not booming. In fact the profits for the last two years running have declined.”

“We are a long way off going under. I would’ve thought you of all people would understand the value in this bookstore,” William said.

Peter reached out for his father’s arm but hesitated. “I see the value it holds for you. That’s why it’s hard – ”

“Is it?” William asked. He met his son’s gaze noting how much like his mother he was. Their green and gold eyes both betrayed such intelligence and ambition.

“The industry is changing, Dad. Digital books are making things difficult.”

William stared at his son. He didn’t have the strength to argue about this again. When Fiona appeared, she gave the steaming mug to William and Peter walked away.

“Snow’s not letting up. There was a year,” she paused, retrieving the information from the story he’d once told her. “It fell thick an’ heavy for weeks. They had to break the ice in the canal… nineteen fifty-six wasn’t it?”

“Fifty-five,” William corrected. He knew what she was doing and he loved her for it.

Her smile warmed his heart and he wrapped his arm around her.

Indeed it snowed almost constantly for weeks on end, preventing the usual amount of customers from coming in. Peter would most certainly see a turn for the worse but William knew his customers. They would be back.

Fiona had her finger on the pulse. She’d organised a mic night with a local author, Jean McLelland. She’d set a microphone on the gallery level overlooking the centre of the room, now filled with an assortment of beanbags. Jean’s latest title, ‘Everlasting Summer’ was neatly stacked on the counter and filled a stand near the door.

They would sell hot chocolates for the young ones, and tea and coffee for the adults and raise funds for the homeless shelter. Fiona had gone above and beyond and it was sure to be a success.

It was looking bleaker than ever when the time came for the patrons to begin arriving. The world outside was covered in a blanket of grey. The doors thrashed on their hinges as the wind beat against them. It was hard to believe anyone would go out in that weather.

William gripped the cold handle tight. He wanted to be ready to usher anyone brave enough inside out of the cold quickly.

The minutes ticked past and the darkness deepened.

The trill of the telephone exploded in the silence and Fiona grabbed the receiver.

William knew before she said anything.

“Circa nineteen fifty-five, the weather has decided to work against us,” she mused. William said nothing. He didn’t even turn in her direction. “Jean just couldn’t get here.”

His fingers fell from the handle first, before his knees gave way.

“Oh God…Will…”

A flash of red took his attention but he had to shield his eyes from the sunlight, though he couldn’t see the sky. The ground beneath him was porous and cold, the sound of water lapping beside him echoed through the space.

He listened, finding peace in the void. He didn’t know where he was but his heart swelled as if he were breathing in air saturated with hope.

His thoughts drifted as though he were in a dream and his eyes shot open. He didn’t want to leave this place just yet.

The ache that had settled in his lower back had dissipated so he pulled himself up into sitting position with ease, feeling younger than he had for a very long time. The shock at finding his feet in icy cold water was lost in the wonder of the place.

Light filtered down from an open shaft in the rock around him, dancing on the water. He leant forward to see down into the depths of the crystal blue and a single drop of blood sullied the blue depths before him.

Instinctively he wiped his nose to find blood smeared across his hand. From the corner of his eye he caught a shock of bright red, as it flashed through the water again.

A gasp escaped him as he reached out, teetering on the edge. And when he opened his eyes, not having realised they were closed, Fiona peered down at him tears streaming down her face.

“Will. Will,” she sobbed. “Stay there, the paramedics are on their way.” She clutched his hand tight, sniffing snot as William lay on his back inside his bookstore. The familiar smell of dust and chai brought him little comfort as he thought about the ethereal cave.

He frowned, as Fiona clucked at him and pulled a tissue from her pocket. She dapped at his nose and as she pulled it away he saw the blood…

Trespassing the Fairyland by Tatiana Efremova

“Do you like it?” my mum is looking at me expectantly.

“I like it,” I reply rather convincingly.

Our garden is glittering with tiny lights now, and it is kind of pretty.

“The boogie man has no place to hide anymore,” my mum is saying, this time enthusiastically.

“Yes,” I am confirming with a nod. I can see that now there is no room for a boogie man to hide.

“Can I play in the garden at night now?” I am asking.

“But at night it isn’t our garden anymore,” my mum is explaining while still smiling, “it is a fairy land. When the lights come on and the people go inside, all fairies come alive and come out to play in this garden. If you play here at night, the fairies won’t be able to play here. Do you want the fairies to have their play time?”

I am looking around for the fairies, and yes, my mum is right: my pink fairy is sitting under the bush. I am lifting my fairy and turning to my mum, “Can she play too?”

“Of course,” is my mum’s answer, “I’m telling you, they come to life when we don’t look.”

“Can I bring my blue pony to the fairy land?”

“Of course,” my mum is smiling kindly.

“Can I ride it when it is alive?” I am asking.

“You see, darling, they can’t be alive while you are looking at them,” my mum is explaining.

I am looking at the pink plastic fairy in my hand.

“Do they die when we look at them?” my eyes are starting to fill with tears.

Have I just killed my fairy?

I hope you enjoyed it.

Want to submit something to Fringe? Send us an email via the Submit page.

Ali. x

Anna Walker’s poignant illustrated story of a young boy called Bill and the embodiment of his bad mood, Mr Huff, is a perfect example of how stories can illuminate our struggles with mindset in our everyday lives.

Bill’s Bad Mood – Anna Walker – Mr Huff

Whether we realise it or not, we make a choice every day about how we will approach the day and this mindset colours how we act and react to any given situation. From the very beginning we see Bill make the unconscious choice to get stuck in his bad mood, and as his day wears on, his mood follows him everywhere in the form of a looming dark cloud called Mr Huff.

Mr Huff Sighs – Anna Walker – Mr Huff

Anna’s evocative illustrations challenge readers to visualise our mindset and acknowledge it, making reference to the importance of emotional self-awareness.

We see how Bill begins to understand Mr Huff and how initially, he struggles with articulating what he is. It isn’t until he confronts his mood and sees himself within it, that he has realises his power over it and begins to change his mindset.

I hate you Mr Huff! – Anna Walker – Mr Huff

Mr Huff has very few words, but the story creates lots of opportunity for discussion with children. This is important because our perception of self is greatly influenced by mindsets we’ve formed at an early age.

“Anna Walker writes and illustrates children’s books and is based in Melbourne. Her charming studio is shared with a printmaker, Rosy the lamp, a few friendly plants, and knitted, woolly creatures. Working with pencil, ink and collage, Anna develops her characters and enjoys spending time with them before they venture out into the world. Her illustrations are inspired by the everyday details of life and the amusing antics of her menagerie. Anna’s latest book with Penguin is Mr Huff, an exploration of how kids deal with the worrying feelings that can accompany a bad day. Together with Jane Godwin, Anna has also recently created a beautiful picture book for Christmas, called What Do You Wish For?”

Check out more from Anna here:

Anna Walker’s Website

Anna Walker Books on Facebook

Ali. x

About 1 in 5 people will suffer from mental illness in their lifetimes and according to research by psychiatrist and researcher, Sam Harvey, mental illness is now the main reason for incapacitation in Australian workers.  Some of the leading causes for the onset of mental illness come from work-related stress and anxiety, something we are all at risk of, and award winning Logan author Karen Tyrell knows this intimately.

Karen initially coped with her experiences of harassment and bullying by one of her students and their parents on her own, keeping her climbing anxiety to herself for fear of worrying those she cared about. Unfortunately, keeping her ordeal to herself as many people do, led to her insomnia and mental illness.

The stigma surrounding mental illness is something Karen is acutely aware of. In many cases, it can result in symptoms being ignored which in turn affects recovery and quality of life. People can feel embarrassed, misunderstood and marginalised. Karen was lucky to have the support of her husband and family when she needed it most.

Another major factor in her recovery was her writing. She says, “I experienced an OCD compulsion to express what was happening to me and ask why I became mentally ill and how I could become well again. In the psychiatric hospital, I interviewed doctors, nurses and patients to find out answers. When I left hospital, I joined Queensland Writers Centre and enlisted into many writing courses to hone my writing craft.”

For her, the act of creating was and still is part of the therapeutic process.

“Writing was comforting and cathartic for me. It was a way to solve my inner personal struggles and connect with my raw emotions. When I write, I connect with my true self and to my reader.”

It is easy to see how Karen’s strength and her passion for sharing her story go hand in hand. Her first award-winning book, Me and Her: A Memoir of Madness is the story of how the manic and psychotic part of her personality began to take over and the beginning of her road to recovery.

Me & Her: A Memoir of Madness

“In 2005, my mad half was born.’

ME ─ wife, mother, writer and teacher.
HER ─ manic, psychic, healer to the living, telepathic to the dead … and I was very psychotic.

At my yearly meeting with my psychiatrist, my husband revealed he had kept secrets from me for over six years. What?

‘On that fateful blue-sky day, my life as I knew it fell apart.’

Her second award-winning book Me & Him: A Guide to recovery shares how her husband influenced her recovery.

Me & Him: A Guide to Recovery

Steve’s revelations changed my perceptions. The sequel Me & Him: A Guide to Recovery was written in two parts. Part 1: a memoir revealing Steve’s secrets. For Part 2: I wrote a self-help manual sharing my recovery and coping skills. The same ones to keep you happy, healthy and mentally balanced. Including tips on how to stress less, sleep better, how to stop negative triggers, develop a wellness plan, how to meditate, stop panic attacks, beat depression, and overcome anxiety.

Karen’s passion for helping the community didn’t stop there. She has since written five more books, this time for children. Her commitment to tackling the stigma of mental illness by keeping the conversation going and sharing easy to relate to stories, is heart-warming and brave.

“I dream my resilience books will make a difference in people’s lives. That my empowering messages will reach every man, woman and child. So they can create positive wellness plans to keep themselves happy, healthy and mentally balanced. Prevention is much better than cure.”

Her children’s books, Bailey Beats the BLAH, STOP the Bully, Harry Helps Grandpa Remember, Jo-Kin Battles the IT and Jo-Kin vs Lord Terra use fun, relatable and compelling characters to empower kids and break the stigma surrounding mental illness.

“I wanted to empower children with resilience strategies so I wrote Bailey Beats the Blah to help prevent anxiety and depression. I wrote STOP the Bully to teach bully prevention through humor and action adventure.”

Bailey Beats the BLAH

This picture book empowers kids to beat depression (sad days) and anxiety (worry thoughts) and lift their mood with pro-active coping skills.

‘Bailey HATES his new school. His tummy aches. He has no friends. His dog Fuzzy slobbers all over him. BLAH! How can Bailey change his BLAH to HA-HA-HA?’

Endorsed by Kids Helpline and aligned with Kids Matter school curriculum.

STOP the Bully      

STOP the Bully shares bully prevention skills in an action-packed humorous adventure.

‘Eleven year old Brian is hiding something. Can Brian STOP the Bully without revealing his secret?’

Endorsed by Kids Helpline and aligned with Kids Matter school curriculum.

Harry Helps Grandpa Remember    

Harry will do ANYTHING to help his grandpa, who has Alzheimer’s. Grandpa couldn’t remember Harry’s name. So Harry decides to discover and invent clever ways to boost Grandpa’s memory. Guaranteed to make you giggle, touch your heart … and raise HOPE.  Harry shares coping skills to improve memory. Winner of a RADF grant.

Jo-Kin Battles the It 

Jo-Kin is a hilarious space adventure for kids 7-12, illustrated by Trevor Salter…

Jo-Kin (aka Josh Atkins) and the Super Space Kids battle the It to save captain Astra and the galaxy. ‘Action-packed, creative, brilliant’

Jo-Kin vs Lord Terra

Reluctant hero, Jo-Kin never wanted to be a Super Space Kid. Not until Lord Terra kidnaps his Commander’s little sister and starts destroying the galaxy. Jo-Kin reunites the mighty Super Space Kids for an inter-planetary hunt for Lord Terra, finally meeting in a legendary winner takes all battle on Planet Deelish-us.

Can Jo-Kin defeat the all-powerful Lord Terra face to face?

Blast off with gadgets, robots and funky food in a hilarious outer space adventure that enlightens readers with the power of teamwork, problem solving, and resilience.

There is no doubt that Karen’s writing has been integral to her recovery and she admits even today, “I write in my journal every day to keep in touch with my emotions, moods and stay balanced.”

“Writing empowers me to keep well and stay focused on my mind, body and spirit and on my true happiness. Writing helps me to focus on what I need to do to keep healthy.”

Karen Tyrrell accurately calls herself a ‘Resilience Author’ but she is much more than that. She is an award-winning author, an experienced teacher, a motivational speaker, writing tutor and pantomime performer. She is a survivor of parent-teacher bullying and mental illness who uses her books to break the stigma around mental illness.

Karen’s resilience books are entertaining page turners showing how to live strong, be resilient, and ways to cope with life stress including the power of humour. This year she will publish yet another children’s book with super hero and space themes to empower kids to connect with their inner super hero. Get along to her latest book launch at the Logan North Library at 10:30am this Saturday the 14^th May. Get more info from the Facebook event here:

Jo-Kin vs Lord Terra Book Launch

Read a recent article about Karen on SheBrisbane here

Download FREE resources and kids activities from www.karentyrrell.com  and pick up Karen’s books from Angus & Robertson: Victoria Point, Riverlinks and Capalaba Park; The Really Good Book Shop, Hillcrest and more HERE.

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