BAJAN SUN MAGAZINE
Angel Hair - the worse Christmas adornment that
was ever made, in my opinion. I stepped back,
frustrated that I could not touch my tree and caress
its branches, not to mention sit underneath and
ponder what was in the presents that bore my name.
To me this was worse than getting lashes. Daydee
saw the look on my face and obviously took pity on
me, held me in a tight hug and told me to come get
my breakfast because Mr. Jordan would soon be
arriving to take us to church.
I sat at the dining room table and for just a moment
I forgot about my tree, because before me lay the
ham and sweet bread and Milo that I had waited for
three hundred and sixty-four days to date. The wait
was worth it. The golden brown raisin bread was
still warm and I could see the coconut centre,
glistening with crystallized sugar and ginger. My
one slice of ham was a deep pink with an outer edge
DEC 2014
of brown crisp skin that sandwiched a thin layer of
juicy white fat. I placed the ham on the slice of
sweet bread and took the first bite. The salty sweet
sandwich almost brought tears to my eyes…it was
so good; hot Milo was the icing on the cake.
“Pa-parrrrp!” A horn blew loudly outside; it was
our ride to Five O’Clock Service.
I wore my red and white diamond patterned armhole
dress with the red bow at the neckline; this was my
favorite of all of Daydee’s sewing creations, even
though it made me look like I should be under the
Christmas tree nestled amongst the other gifts. And
Daydee, oh she was a vision of beauty. Her crisp
white ruffled-necked long-sleeved blouse and the
red and blue full-circle skirt she wore, cinched in the
waist with a red two inch-wide patent leather belt
fitted her perfectly; she wore her hair in a tight
coiffure at the nape of her neck. Even at her age she
still got second glances, especially from Mr. Jordan
as he opened the back passenger door for us to
climb into the old Morris Minor. Mrs. Jordan
however sat ramrod straight in the front seat and
proffered a very cold “Good Morning!”
The short drive to James Street Methodist Church in
the city stood as one of my favorite memories of
Christmas morning. I pulled my red cardigan closer
around me as I stared out the small side window of
the car. There was silence within other than a slight
humming from Mr. Jordan and the accompanying
purr of the engine. Our departure from home had
signaled the entrance of our companions on this
Michaelmas journey. It was almost as if we had
synchronized our clocks and bolted from the starting
blocks at the same time. Men clad in their Sunday
best hopped on bicycles with loose chains and lead
the parade down the street. Women hurriedly tugged
on small arms as they walked quickly to the bus stop
to catch the lone red Transport Board bus that would
carry the villagers Bridgetown. This was the only
time of year that the bus came out this early at four
a.m.
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