Me at Christmas 2000, obviously happy with my present.
OPINION:
Cows don't do Christmas. Daisy doesn't have December 25 programmed into her brain. Buttercup doesn't feel compelled to gather the juiciest grass for her calves and artistically arrange it next to the boxthorn hedge.
Instead cows need milking and moving to a new paddock at Kirihimete - and on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day for that matter.
Throw into that twice-daily routine a church service and either travel from Patea to Whanganui or hosting Christmas lunch. Christmas must have been exhausting for Mum. I'm exhausted just recalling how much she packed in.
The lead-up to the big day would start weeks before with making Christmas cakes with both royal and almond icing. Then the kitchen would be transformed into a mince pie factory, with the fruit tarts to be distributed to older people around town.
Generosity was a big part of a Lacy Christmas. Dad would leave beer out for the tanker driver. Neighbours would come for a drink, cake and mince pies.
My brother and I were allowed to open one present while Mum and Dad were milking, then we'd open more when they came home for breakfast. Breakfast, understandably, was the same as every other day. Special food to start festivities seemed as foreign as snow on Christmas Day (though Gran always maintained it did snow in Whanganui once on December 25).
Then it would be church, with Mum hoping she had scrubbed enough cow manure off her hands before administering the chalice. Then it was in the car to Whanganui to celebrate with my grandparents, aunts and their families. Pop's card table become the kids' table and we would have lemonade in these brightly coloured metallic cups, which I now have.
Once Gran forgot to serve the peas and her son-in-law never let her forget it. As I don't like those tiny dots that are hard to get into your mouth, I never got what the big deal was. Another son-in-law was such a tidy freak you had to be careful he didn't gather up not just the wrapping paper but your presents.
Christmas lunch on the farm meant more room to spread out. I remember running around the house after stuffing myself with pavlova.
Gran never insisted on much, but complete silence and attention were called for when the Queen's speech came on. Despite coming to New Zealand as a young girl, Gran always referred to England as home.
By this time, the wind had no doubt knocked over some of the dozens and dozens of Christmas cards we'd received. Most contained a letter with news of what children around my age had done that year and their plans for the following. This was well before emails and social media, and toll calls were seen as luxuries. One relative always sent her letter in November - needless to say she didn't have cows to milk.
Boarding school festivities were dominated by the carol service. It would start with Once in Royal David's City. The head chorister would sing the first verse, the choir joining her for the second. We mere mortals weren't allowed to join in until the third verse. For years afterwards I'd hesitate about singing the first two verses, worried I would get told off. I never did, of course.
And what do I want for Christmas 2021? Rest, lovely readers, rest. And pretending milk and cream come from Santa, not cows.