A Christmas Riddle

On light, music, wisdom and reciprocity.

(Painting by author from a composition by Tom Shepherd.)

Many years ago, when my son was in kindergarten his teacher invited any immigrant grandparents to come and give a talk to the children. Christmas was approaching and she thought it would be interesting for the children who lived in sunny Australia to hear what happened in other countries at that time of the year.

I broached the idea with my mother who lived alone, often complained of fatigue and was becoming increasingly isolated now that many of her friends had died or moved away. You could talk about growing up in Latvia, I suggest. At first, she baulked at the idea of going across town to talk to a classroom of infants. “How long will it take?” she asked. Fifteen minutes or so, that’s all and I promised to shout her lunch afterwards.

She arrived surprisingly well prepared. In her bag were some books on Latvia with big, glossy colour photos. She tells the children about the long, snowy winters of her northern Europe. Like all six-year-olds they are obsessed with details, in this case the art of building a snowman.

“Do you use a carrot or a stick for its nose?” asks one girl and “What do you use for its eyes?” asks another.

My mother deftly segues to her favourite Latvian ritual, the magic of midsummer night. Her eyes sparkle as she relates the legend of the white flower that blossoms only then –

“And if you ever found it, all your wishes would come true!” The highlight of midsummer night was a huge bonfire, she says, around which everyone danced and sang.

“We had a bonfire at our house once and our grass caught fire,” interjects one boy knowingly. “We had a bonfire too,” adds another, “and our house burned down!” My mother pauses genuinely shocked. A third boy pipes up, “When my house got on fire, my hair caught fire and then my brains exploded into outer space!” The class disintegrates into giggles and the teacher claps her hands to restore order.

In her day she goes on, “we didn’t celebrate birthdays.” No parties, no presents. “We celebrated name days instead and friends would arrive with bunches of flowers.” The children are horrified by the idea but then they are getting used to hearing about barbaric practices. Last week they had an Italian grandfather who said there was no Santa Claus in Italy, only a witch who might bring a gift, while naughty children get a lump of coal.

Time for a story. My mother ends up telling one that’s part fable, part riddle.

“A father has three sons who all share one room. One day the father builds a fine new room onto his house and says he will give it to whichever son is best able to fill that room. The first son brings a big horse inside. It’s big, but not big enough. The second son brings a horse with a wagon full of hay. The hay, piled high, almost touches the ceiling. It’s a good effort but still not enough. Finally, it’s the youngest son’s turn. The little boy produces a small lantern; he lights it and takes it inside. The father smiles as he watches the light fill the entire room. You may be the smallest, but you are the cleverest and so you shall have this room.”

I had long thought of this story as purely hers. But last year I came across the same story in a children’s picture book called Mary’s Penny by Tanya Landman (who writes at the end of the book that she didn’t know where the story originated from). My mother is no longer here but these days I spend a lot of time with an auntie who like her also has dementia and enjoys listening to the children’s books that I’ve collected.

In Mary’s Penny I noticed the narrative had been changed to suit modern tastes. It was no longer three sons competing for a room, but two sons and a daughter competing for who gets to run the whole farm once the old farmer is dead and gone. (The publishing blurb goes so far as to call it a “feminist fable”.) In this version of the tale, the horse and the cart of hay make an appearance and so does the lantern. But the daughter not only brings light, she goes one step further and brings a flute to make music which also filters through the whole house. So, she fills the home two times over thereby adding a third quality - revealing incredible wisdom.

Light, music, wisdom. The perfect gifts for any Christmas receiver. And yet I feel there is more to learn beyond these Christmas parables.

When I finally went to Latvia one winter to see how my cousins celebrated this season one of them took me to a community hall to meet a Latvian Santa who was giving out presents to children. About two dozen excited children, all dressed up in their smartest gear, queued up to meet Santa. I’d watched Santas doing their thing in Australian childcare centres so expected for him to do the same. He’d reach into his sack and after a word or two with them, then hand over their gifts (all prepaid by the parents of course). But this time it wasn’t so straight forward. The Latvian Santa upended my expectations by asking each child:

“And what do you have for me?”

And one by one they would blush, or puff themselves up, and give him something that meant special to them – a painting they’d created, a violin played, a poem they’d written to recite or a song they could sing for him there and then. One little girl even performed her own dance. And only once they’d finished, did they receive their little gift.

And wrapped up in this ritual was another virtue they could all take on board – the importance of reciprocity - even for figures like Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas Everyone.

May your days be filled with light, music, wisdom and reciprocity.

Painting by the author, from a composition by Paul Clark.