Jimmy Barnes writes on the meaning of Christmas, from poverty to plenty
Christmas is not a religious holiday for Jimmy Barnes, but it does offer a time for the great Aussie rocker – who recently underwent open heart surgery – to reflect on his life’s path from poverty to plenty.
This time of year means different things to different Australians. Many of us don’t celebrate Christmas at all, or we have other feasts for other reasons around these weeks. We are a diverse country with different cultures and traditions, and I think this is one of our strengths – we are all free to follow our hearts.
Some people say that these differences are signs of division, but I see them as signs of unity. No matter who or what we believe in, we can all stop and give thanks in our own uniquely colourful ways; taking time to break all kinds of bread with those we love.
No matter what holiday we are celebrating or what food we are sharing, odds are that it will be accompanied by songs of peace and goodwill. Our world is troubled and unfortunately, we can’t fix everything but maybe we can seize this moment and this spirit to fix some things closer to home? Maybe we can reach out our hands and start something that might resonate beyond our own circle of friends? It’s just a thought, but these are the sorts of things I want my children and grandchildren to consider as we pause for our family gatherings.
Christmas is not a religious holiday for me, but it does offer a time to reflect on the year that has passed and the year that is ahead. It is a time of contemplation. How can I be a better person? So, the Christian story of Christmas is not completely lost on me even though it has taken on a very different meaning over the last 60 years.
Frankly, my childhood Yuletide memories from Elizabeth, South Australia, are mainly of profound sadness. It was typically a time when parents who were already struggling to put food on tables, or shoes on feet, became completely overwhelmed. The John Martin’s Christmas pageant rolling down the centre of Adelaide marked the start of a fearful period for us. All the pressure cooker feelings my parents felt all year exploding into more violence, more abuse, more tears.
I watched as Mum bit her lip and tried desperately to turn this one day into something different. Many a night I slipped out of bed and tiptoed through the house in search of what I would be getting on Christmas morning only to be disappointed – a bike frame pulled from the rubbish tip, broken and sad, being sanded by my mother in readiness for a coat of paint before the big day. Second hand clothes from the Salvation Army in neat piles, waiting to be wrapped in used paper and transformed into gifts.
As the front door opened and my father walked through it, I would slip back to my room as arguments rang like alarm bells down the hallway. And as I lay in my bed, I prayed. Not really to God, but to anyone who could help. I wanted them to know that I didn’t need a bike or “new” clothes. I needed the one thing that they already had but couldn’t seem to reach – their love.
Come Christmas day we would wake to the smell of the wet house paint that thickly coated our bikes and run to the lounge room to find mum and dad, exhausted, sitting by a dying tree, propped up in a bucket. We would run out into the yard like all kids do to play with our toys. Somehow Mum and Dad had managed to pull off the biggest day of the year! How they did it I will never know. Christmas would be full of singing and food until Dad, or one of his friends, got drunk and then it was just like any other day after all. Afraid and ashamed, my siblings and I would end up hiding in our rooms, covering our ears so we didn’t hear the screaming, but for a few hours that morning there had been a kind of sad magic.
During these years we attended Sunday school when my parents needed us out of the way. I spent a lot of time with the Salvation Army singing and making music, but they never came marching to help us with our problems because our parents kept them hidden. So, I understand the basics of Christianity, and I know it means a lot to many people, but as a child I grew up thinking that there was no one watching over me. I knew there was right and wrong in the world but the consequences for that behaviour never really revealed themselves. Like far too many kids in far too many places, we were being hurt but no one ever heard about it, nobody was held responsible, nothing seemed to really change.
Each year we tried to make it through Christmas unscarred and each year it just got harder until our family finally shattered like a broken bauble on Boxing Day. When I escaped home and ran away, I couldn’t have cared if I never celebrated Christmas again. I didn’t want a tree; I didn’t want to sing carols. I left it all behind and thought I would be safe as long as I kept running and never looked back.
Eventually I started a family of my own. Christmas needed to be different now. Jane was by my side, and we started to make our own traditions, from scratch. I wanted to give my kids everything I never got as a child so, at first, I gave them every gift they could imagine – and some that they couldn’t. The best bikes, the latest games, the most beautiful clothes. Over the first few years of big tours and hit records there was buckets of money spent on things that were often quickly discarded. Sometimes the kids played with the boxes that surrounded those gifts more than they played with their fancy contents. So, I tried to find even better presents for them but in the end, they were all just things. I had to stop running from my past and remember what I had really wanted as a child. It wasn’t toys. It wasn’t anything you could wrap and shove under a tree. I wanted love and I wanted to feel safe. Of course, it’s all any of us really need, and this can be the time of year which reminds us.
So, with Jane’s guidance we started making the Barnes Family Christmas about sharing and giving the most important gifts we can give: our time and our love. It started with a rule. Christmas would not be a shopping spree. If we were to give each other gifts, we would have to make them. It started small. Kids’ drawings from school; bright, colourful, full of hope and dreams. Magic drawings that came directly from the hearts of our babies. These are still some of my most prized possessions and to this day they line the walls of our home. But it didn’t stop there. The family collaborated on gifts for our extended family. Jams, preserves, shortbread and even music became regulars under our tree. The day took on a new meaning. We still buy some presents for the little ones, but everyone puts their hearts into making something special to offer up to each other on the day. We open our home to our friends and loved ones and celebrate this occasion that had lost all meaning to me for too many years. Together, as a family, we have found something special. We know that most people are not as fortunate but that is just another reason for us to pause and give thanks.
Nowadays a typical Barnes family Christmas is big, full of love, caring and effort. The day starts like it does in most homes. We get to bed late after making sure all is prepared for the children, and the grandchildren who will undoubtably wake with the sun and come crashing into the lounge room like whirlwinds to sit by the tree and stare intensely at what lies beneath. Then with very little sleep we are up and ready to share the day. Jane is a powerhouse and without the aid of coffee or breakfast, she begins the long-haul preparation which will culminate in our lunch somewhere around 2pm. This gives all the families time to have their own rituals at their own homes before setting out on the road to the Southern Highlands where the clan will gather for the feast.
The kitchen is the centre of our home. The whole house has been built around this hub and it is the place we love the most. This is where we nurture our family; emotionally and spiritually. We sit at our kitchen table everyday with our offspring, depending on who is where on tour, and debrief. We let go of our problems or cry for the friends we have lost or just sit and laugh at life together. It is the nucleus, the centre of all things. At Christmas, this space is transformed into a huge family dining room, so we can all sit within arm’s reach of each other.
While Jane opens her heart and begins her marathon kitchen preparations, I’m a little slower off the mark. As a creature of habit, I start the day with toast and a strong coffee as I sort through my “to-do” list. First up is opening my computer and playing music all over the house. Christmas morning always starts with The Tin Lids album – recorded by my children when they were little. I get it playing inside and outside while I start preparing charcoal for the barbecue. This chore could probably have waited until later, but I always seem find myself out in the yard covered in charcoal dust, crying and listening to the sound of my kids singing from all those years ago. It may sound soppy – I always try to say it’s just due to the early start – but it’s more than that. I cry because I am so happy. I am home with my family near to me and the world finally feels safe. Slowly some kids, unable to sleep through the sound of themselves singing at high volume, stumble through the door and complain to their mother, yet again, about my choice of music.
From then on it is a day of laughter and collaboration. Everyone cooks, or at least helps; we all have a part to play in our celebration. Jane’s speciality is turkey stuffed with fresh peaches, breadcrumbs, and pine nuts. Baked in the oven for at least four hours, it is important that it is stuffed and well prepped. One of the kids will concentrate on salads which, these days, are mainly picked from our garden and prepared with love. Figs, cheeses, huge piles of fresh baked bread overflowing from boards are left out on the bench for anyone who is hungry and can’t wait for the sit-down meal.
Jane’s family arrive at various times of the morning, arms filled with gifts and the food they have painstakingly prepared to be laid on our table. Kaye, Jane’s sister, will oversee the root vegetables. Huge piles will be peeled and then baked with olive oil and salt. Every year we seem to make more potatoes. They are a favourite of the ever-growing family. Jep, Jane’s youngest sister, has the job of making dessert. Trifle. Massive bowls of custard and sponge cake mixed with jelly, fresh mangoes and drowned in luscious, thickened cream. I know she doesn’t make it just for me, but she pretends she does because I love it so much. I am responsible for all things cooked on open fires. I like to stuff chickens with black pudding and chestnuts and cook them in my smoker. Straps of rare roast beef cooked on charcoal until they are medium rare then left to rest so that they are perfect when they hit the table.
As the day rolls on things start to get hectic. This is where I am at my best. I have lived with chaos all my life and I am usually called into the kitchen in the last hour to help finish things off. I have my own recipe for making the gravy, but unlike my dear friend Paul Kelly I am yet to write a song about it. The carving of the turkey and beef and anything else that needs it is usually left to Jane’s brothers, Richard and Robert. They are seasoned kitchen hands and, like me, they know when to get out of the girls’ way. Somewhere close to two o’clock it is all done. I am normally covered in soot and sweat and need to wash it all off before we all sit down to feast.
As I look around the table my heart feels full of love. I say thanks to everyone who has made such an amazing feast happen and then we eat. When we have all had more than enough, we move slowly to the piano and songs fill the air. Music has always poured through our family like the blood we share and at some point, I will inevitably reflect on how fortunate I am. It is always overwhelming. Those early days in Elizabeth West were painful but maybe they turned out to have a purpose after all. I don’t personally believe it was divine, but I can understand why some people might feel otherwise.
And at that moment when I think back to my childhood, the bad things somehow fall away. I am left with one holiday memory that stands out; being held in my mother’s arms. For that one brief moment, I felt safe.
Merry Christmas, Mum.
