World War Two Christmas.(Part Two)

We look askance at our modern, enlightened school system that  has clinically and cynically removed carols, creches and the wonderful narrative of Jesus from its classrooms. It is almost as if it was Santa Claus who arrived by the virgin birth!

Back in my war-time school days it was not so. Could it be that the ever present threat of annihilation by bombs and V2 rockets brought the need of God's care and protection into daily focus in our lives? I think so.

There was never any problem with celebrating Christmas in my Junior school of Poppleton Road in York.

We were thankful that the vast hole that had been blown in our school's middle structure was repaired and now, one year later, in 1944 we sang carols lustily to the excellent conducting of Miss Christine Wisley. Furthermore, that year I was given a stuffed lamb to hold in our school nativity play. Christmas decorations were everywhere, bunting, tinsel and tiny painted bells. Their bright lights defiantly shone into the darkness of the gloomy years of war.

And lo, wise men came bearing gifts from the nearby American Air base. A small bag of sugar and cocoa, a shiny red apple and, best of all, a packet of chewing gum. We were warned by our teacher not to chew that gum before we left her classroom. Our school photo had been taken the previous week and I was given mine to take home to my proud parents. While looking at the handsome young man in his grey shirt and sweater I absently mindedly stretched out my american chewing gum from my lips which promptly stuck over the nose and left eye of my portrait. I never forgot that Christmas. I had a black and white photo with a smear across the face and memories of a stinging cane across my fingers with Merry Christmas from Miss Gibson.

Jubilate.

Ian

A World War 2 Christmas

Since the Christmas season is upon us I thought that I would give you all a break from politics and come to the centre of our Christian calendar: CHRISTMAS.
I have been recalling with my sister Anne, some of our shared recollections of our Christmas days spent in York in England during W.W.2.
In 1944  it was a "ration book" Christmas, but there again, all days were "ration book" days: a coupon for so much sugar, two coupons for so much coal, two coupons for so many eggs and so on. 
Nevertheless, the Wilson family always ate well at Christmas. My mother had a chicken house at the end of the garden and also tended a lame duck called Matilda. This duck had been rescued from the mouth of a weasel by a local farmer and given to my mother to nurse back to health. Matilda did not realize that she would be headed for the oven at Christmas 1944, along with a couple of her friends from the chicken run. We also had other goods that escaped Emmanuel Shinwell's ration book regime. My aunt  ran a bakery and had raisins, sweet mince and other ingredients that magically appeared from under-the-counter for our special pudding. We ate well, for not only did we have vitals but also Aunt Annie was the best cook in the city.
As for toys the fare was less abundant. My Uncle Harry was an engineer in a munitions factory and managed to turn out a spring loaded submarine and an exploding battle ship for my banner gift that year. Along with two handkerchiefs, three post office savings bonds and a Waddington's jig saw puzzle.
That night I was allowed to stay up until nine-o-clock and as I walked back home with my parents from the bakery, I looked into the starry sky and felt that I was the happiest kid in the world.

Jubilate .

Ian