A reminder of a Christmas past
HE LOOKS alarmingly like some ancient Teletubby prototype in his roughly knitted outfit, his podgy face creased by a worried frown beneath a bizarre balaclava.
But when I found the picture after opening a yellowing, slightly frayed card, it made my Christmas.
For there, staring out from half a century ago, was me – just as short and bald – in a photograph I hadn’t known existed.
Below the “Happy Xmas” message on the card was an orange sticker with the simple words: “Here you are, Paul. Take care of it.”
It came with a more orthodox Christmas card from Joyce Anderson, who was a neighbour when, dirt poor, my mother, father and I lived at my grandparents’ house in Gipsy Lane on the outskirts of Erdington.
The letter arrived out of the blue at my office a couple of days before December 25.
It was one of those magical moments that happen all too rarely, even at Christmas.
More magical than any of the gifts I received – though I am grateful for each and every item I got and for the thought that went into choosing them.
More magical than any of the festive meals I ate or any of the many drinks I necked back.
More magical than the Christmas lights that twinkle on the tree in my hall or the sound of carols ringing through streets busy with shoppers.
Joyce, you see, is someone I’ve not seen for decades – probably not since we left Gipsy Lane when I was five to move into a council flat on the Lyndhurst Estate.
Yet she’d kept the photograph – presumably given to her by my proud parents on my first Christmas – then had the thoughtfulness to post it to me.
Her kindness touched my heart and I thank her deeply and sincerely.
But the significance goes further than that for Joyce provides a link with a past that’s long gone.
A world in which strongly-knitted, decent working class communities were neighbourly and caring.
A world in which we were often desperately poor, but there was a sense of security and belonging.
A world in which my future was forged.
My grandparents are long since dead, my parents more recently deceased.
But absent-mindedly opening the letter at my desk on another busy working day I found a remmant of a lost time.
“I sometimes saw your mom in Erdington,” says a little note in the Christmas card that Joyce sent.
“God bless you,” she adds.
Bless you, too, Joyce, for you have reminded me of much that is important.
Not only the personal memories that the photograph rekindled, but of more general things, too.
Such as the importance of our families, friends and communities and the debts we owe them.
We’re edging into a new decade – one further still from the harsh days of 1950s’ working class Birmingham.
But today those monochrome days shine a little more brightly in my heart thanks of Joyce’s gift.
Thank you.
