Christmas Countdown with Jane Richardson

Hello and welcome to Day 9 in my Countdown to Christmas Blog! Today’s featured guest is Jane Richardson. And with the twinkle lights all a glow on the bristly pine tree, icicles forming on the window panes and a roaring fire in the hearth, Oliver sets out crackers and cheese and perfectly chilled white wine. As Jane enters the room, Roy Wood and his band Wizzard play on the stereo and Oliver sings along to “I wish it could be Christmas every day!”

Sharon: Hello, Jane! Sharon and Jane exchange hugs before settling into wing back chairs. Oliver pours the wine while blowing kisses to Jane.

Jane is going to share her memories of a British Christmas, 70s style. This sentimental journey will make you laugh and cry. And with no further ado, here’s Jane.

I guess the simplest definition of a ‘tradition’ is ‘something that’s always done the same way,’ and while I’m generally the sort of person who will happily embrace change, there are some things I do for no other reason than sheer tradition. Take Christmas, for example. Now that I’m a Proper Growed-Up Person with children of my own, my family has developed a number of its own traditions, but there are still some things, legacies of my own nineteen-seventies British childhood Christmases, that I just can’t do without. Christmas isn’t Christmas without them.

Take Christmas stockings. My children will always find and apple and an orange in the toes of their Christmas stockings because that’s what I always had in mine. Well, now I know they were a result of my mother’s desperate attempts to make sure her kids had at least some festive Vitamin C and fibre to cancel out the effects of all that yuletide sugar and chocolate, but that’s fine. Along with that well-intentioned fruit salad - which always meant you’d reached the end of the stocking toys and it was time to head downstairs where the big pressies were - there would be one of those little net bags of chocolate coins. You know the sort where you have to prise a disc of razor-sharp gold tinfoil off each face of a circle of the sickliest chocolate ever? Yes, I know, they’re revolting, but still - it’s traditional, isn’t it? And that’s why I find myself stuffing the same chocolate coins into my children’s Christmas stockings, only these days I’ve found a supermarket that stocks chocolate Euros, a fact that for some reason tickles me hugely. A sign of the times, I suppose. After all, my nineteen-seventies Christmases were a century ago!

A large part of the British Christmas in the nineteen-seventies revolved around television. I suppose lots of people still spend inordinate amounts of time in front of the TV now over the season, but in those days there were only three television channels in the UK. Three! Can you believe it? You could set your brand spanking new Tell-The-Time Timex watch by the television on Christmas Day, it was always the same. In the morning there would be some carolling programme broadcast from some cathedral or other, and always very staid and formal. Three o’clock in the afternoon was time for The Queen’s Speech, as it is even now. Nobody in the whole world spoke like the Queen did then, and does still. Late afternoon, some kind of variety offering – mention the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show to any Brit and I guarantee you’ll get a hoot and a grin in return. In the evening would be the Christmas movie, and the dear old BBC didn’t have much imagination when it came to choosing them, which is why every person in the UK between the ages of forty to fifty-five has seen The Great Escape at least twelve times….!

Of course, for us pre-teens, the highlight of the day was the ‘Top Of The Pops’ Christmas special. Ah, that seventies glam rock! My sister and I would be setting the table with the best tablecloth and the special once-a-year dinner service, warbling along with Roy Wood and his band Wizzard telling us ‘I wish it could be Christmas every day,’ or best of all, belting it out with Slade - ‘so here it is, Merry Christmas! Everybody’s having fun!’

And we were, we were having loads of fun! Those nineteen-seventies Christmases were the best of all. We were too young to know much about politics or economics or the state of the country, and the UK really was in a bit of a state back then. Things were tough. We certainly never realised what Mum and Dad must have gone without, how they would have scrimped and saved to make sure Christmas was special. Well, they managed it perfectly. I don’t remember Christmas being anything other than completely wonderful, and that’s how it should be.

Both Mum and Dad are gone now, Dad a few years ago, Mum just a few days before last Christmas, and you know something? The last words she’d said were….’Merry Christmas.’ So, this year I’ll be setting out the same old tablecloth on my own family’s Christmas table, and setting out some of that same once-a-year dinner service. There’s no more Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special, and ‘Top Of The Pops’ is long gone, but I expect The Great Escape will be showing on some TV channel at some point. Well, it’s traditional, isn’t it? It wouldn’t be Christmas without it! And I promise you, I’ll be singing the same songs we sang back then…..’Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun.’ I’ll be watching my own kids having fun, and I’ll be remembering when my sister and I were kids and how much we loved Christmas. And at some point I’ll raise a glass to Mum and Dad to thank them for all those wonderful nineteen-seventies Christmases that I loved so much. Thanks, Mum and Dad. This Christmas will be for you.

Happy Christmas, everybody.

Sharon: Thank you for sharing your lovely memories with us today, Jane. What better way to show the footprints our loved ones have left on our hearts than by passing family traditions on from generation to generation. Lovely indeed. Your parents will be smiling down on you this Christmas Day, thrilled that they left such footprints on your heart.

Scots-born Jane Richardson now lives on the south coast of England where the sun always shines and it never, ever rains, not ever never. She lives in a state of permanent yet jolly chaos with her husband, two children (she thinks they might be hers), several felines, a pooch, a tank full of goldfish and an invisible fox who barks beneath her window every night and keeps her awake. She’s been a management trainer, a stage manager, a dresser and part-time costume assistant and a holistic therapist, so it’s fair to say she’s Been About A Bit!’
Don't forget to enter Jane's Christmas Wishes Contest at her blog Home Thoughts From Abroad!

Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Christmas Countdown with Sharon Donovan

Hello and welcome to Day 1 of my Christmas Countdown Blog! I would like to start the countdown with my favorite Christmas memory. Putting up the train set. Won't you take a trip with me through the Swiss Alps? Enjoy the tour!

The world of make believe is portrayed through a child’s imagination each year through the magic of Christmas. Anything is possible. Hearing a favorite story or watching a movie or reading a book unlocks the door to an endless array of fantasies. This is a mystical and enchanting time for a child, and I was no exception.

The magic started at my house when we put up the Lionel train set. Around the first week of December, my family transformed the basement into a captivating village from another place and time. I couldn’t wait. As my mom and sister and I unwrapped the train set, cottages, tunnels, and other accessories from their boxes, my dad and brother made a platform out of a piece of plywood and two wooden horses. Once that was up, they nailed down the track and rigged the lights to bring the village to life.

As the evening unfolded, the pounding dwindled off to a few final taps of the hammer. With the track safely secured on the platform, we set up the train station along with the transformer to make it run. As our village went up, anticipation soared. Nothing in this world could compare to watching the rural town come to life with its stucco cottages, duck pond and covered bridge, and a farmer’s stand surrounded by a rough fumed fence.

Standing back to admire our little town, I wondered where the train was heading. Deciding it could go anywhere I wanted it to go, my creative mind went to work as I allowed myself to drift off into a fantasy. Conjuring up images of pine forests lined with chestnut trees, blueberry bushes, and long walking paths, I gave my imagination free rein.

I’d just finished reading Heidi, and her adventures in the Swiss Alps sounded like so much fun. Rolling green pastures under snow-capped mountains high in the hilltops flashed through my mind along with fresh country air, pine trees, and friendly people. Thinking of the millions of paths to explore and all that rich Swiss chocolate and good cheese, I decided to take a trip to the Swiss Alps. Scurrying to catch the train before it took off, I was just in time as the conductor rang his bell and bellowed out, “All aboard!”


Large sturdy farmhouses framed by green pastures landscape the mountainside. Lazy milka cows graze in the grass alongside old wooden barns. White chalets with flowering window boxes and carved wooden doors sit amidst the sunny valley, and a cheerfully splashing creek meanders through the forest thickly studded with needle and moss-covered boulders.
Looking up at one of the mountain chalets, I notice a lady leaning out the window holding a sprinkling can, ready to water her wild purple orchids. Hearing a rustling in the pine needles, she waves a cheery greeting. “Hello down there!”

Toward the gushing water stream, a man whistles as he turns the wheel of the butter churn. From the charming cottage trimmed in bric-a-brac, the aroma of blueberry pancakes waft through the clean mountain air. A lady sticks her head out the door and yells, “Breakfast is ready – come and get it!”

Dairy farms are nestled in the valley beneath snow-capped peaks. Cow bells tinkle in the breeze as cattle wander freely in lush undulating meadows, munching on grass without a care in the world. “Moo – moo.” Higher up on the slopes, mountain billy goats roam the hillside, and a golden eagle soars across the sunny blue sky.

My adventure takes me deeper into the woods where there are huge boulders embedded in the ground. Cheerfully chirping mountain birds sing to me as I pick a handful of blue bells, and a woodpecker busily drills in the bark of a tree. The white speckled plumage of a nutcracker disappears into a bristly pine tree, emerging a moment later with a pinecone between his toes.
Hiking further up the alpine trail, I look down and stumble into a world of untouched beauty. A waterfall tumbles over jagged peaks and deep gorges into a sprawling lake beneath. Red deer frolic in a mystical meadow of wild flowers, and a swan splashes about in a crystal clear stream.

My next adventure takes me skipping through a dense forest coated with pine needles and fruit trees. Hungry from my hike, I pluck some ripe juicy berries from the vine and pop them into my mouth. The echoing hoot of a long-eared owl warbles across the forest as I follow another winding path.

Crushing pinecones as I walk, my path takes me to a rural village with a schoolhouse, weather-beaten sheds, and a water mill. The smell of cinnamon cookies and Swiss chocolate drift out of a bakery. A factory worker smiles as he sells a pair of hobnailed shoes to a lady wearing a Bernese hat with a black veil. Handing her the parcel wrapped in brown paper, he smiles warmly and says, “Thank you kindly, miss.” A bell jingles on the door as she leaves.

As the sun breaks through the morning dawn, a farmer wearing a tall black hat stands on a mountain top herding sheep. His cheeks are rosy from the cold, but he yodels as he works. “Yodel-ay-hi-hi. Yodel-ay-hi-hi!” Picking up his alpenhorn, a long, curved wooden horn, he blows into it, signalling to a neighbor across the Alps.

My trip across the Swiss Alps takes its final journey as the train goes through spiral tunnels and looping viaducts. When it comes out, it emerges into a winter wonderland surrounded by glaciers glistening in the snow like diamonds.

A hidden valley makes a picturesque scene as skiers sweep down the steep slopes of the mountains. Giggling kids bobsled in the snow, and a St. Bernard yips around them in playful circles. Frosty the snowman, dressed in a Santa hat and red scarf, waves to me as he stands tall amidst the bristly pine trees, bidding me a cheery farewell as I depart the majestic Swiss Alps. “Ho Ho Ho!”

Did your family put up a train? And if so, do you carry on the tradition with your kids? I'd love to hear your memories. Comments are most welcome!

Wishing you and yours a very Merry Christmas!