MY PRIZE FIGHTER ( Christmas story 1967)

“A time for Christmas. For Light has come into  this world. That is our journey…” – R. Raphe

My father was a resilient person. He’d weathered much. Worked hard. Lived much.  He was my hero. I thought he’d always be there. In a way he always has.  His never left me.

December 1967 my mother brought him home . For the last time. For the best Christmas ever.

I was only seven, but I remember her chopping wood, late into the night, so the fire would burn long on the hearth. The days were damp and soggy. Cold and unforgiving. And she brought him home for Christmas. It was a wonderful time. Though, to some, it may not have been. But to us,  it was.

Christmas Day the stereo played his favourite carols. He sat in the great chair, trying to sing, but the words would not come. But he felt them.

We didn’t have a lot of money. Lived on the small paycheck my mother made  by being a seamstress. Nevertheless, she made sure there was Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.  I can still smell the pungent scent of sage stuffing wafting through the house. She’d had her hair styled in a huge blonde beehive that stretched into infinity.

My father’s chair was set close to the fire, so he could enjoy the warmth. His eyes watched the flames lick at the dry wood, as we listened to it snap and crackle, like rice Krispies cereal.

My mother spent a huge portion of her earnings on a beautiful dressing gown. She wanted my father to have the best gift ever. Maroon satin, with velvet collar, velvet tie and  fabric stitched through with brown velvet lines. He looked like a fancy prize fighter. That’s what my mother said.

She was genuinely happy. She said it was Christmas, no matter what. It would always be Christmas. As it should always be.

I liked to run my hands over the soft collar of his Christmas dressing gown. He would try to smile and hum to the carols. I told  him it was okay. I would sing them for him. He  wiggled his finger at me, which was our way of communicating. I’d wiggle my finger back at him and giggle. My mother took photos of us that day. Four of them. Ones I keep  in a special place. 

Our  cat lay on the hearth getting toasty warm, as my Mother rattled about in the kitchen. The cat purred. My father dozed, as I sat with him. It was in the quiet  that we seemed to best understand each other.

My father didn’t really eat much of dinner.  We sat by the fire. My mother had set the table with all of her best antique chine. The china I use, to this day, when friends come over. But  he decided to stay in the big chair , so we brought plates over from the table to sit with him.  

I caught him  looking at my mother. And she at him. Their eyes locked in some silent thought. Something meant just for the two of them.

My mother cleaned up the dishes. The carols played, and the cat purred, and the fire flapped in the darkened room, as night fell.

We must have stayed in the Christmas quiet till the fire burned low. It was the best Christmas ever. I know that sounds strange. But it was.

My father was  my hero. He showed me how to be strong.  He died three months later. March 26 1968. My mother , strong willed as he was, passed away exactly twenty  years later, on March 26, 1988.

It was exactly how they had  dreamt of it, I imagined. I found his Christmas dressing gown in the closet , when I cleared out the house. I ran my hands over the velvet lapels. Just for a moment. To remember.  He  had only worn it that one time. 

 He taught me about finding great joy. My prize fighter.

 “While the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for Joy..” -Job 8:7

Photographs 2023