A Child's Christmas in Wales

You may think that a lyrical, poetic account of a famous poet's childhood Christmases would start softly, with falling snow and crystal-clear nights of sparkling stars.

But no.

Thomas starts with the Christmas that involved throwing snowballs at cats, and discovering smoke in the kitchen upon his return, resulting in the fire department being called.

From there, Thomas touches on snow, the postman, and the presents – enormous mittens and scarves knitted by Aunts, pictureless books, toy animals, homemade candies, board games, engineering projects that are too hard, and once, inexplicably, a hatchet.

He describes the house, with cats stretched out before a blazing fire, and Uncles sitting in the front parlour smoking cigars, while the children “smoke” their sugar “fags.” After dinner, the Uncles loosen their buttons and fall asleep, the dog is sick, Aunt Dosie takes aspirin, and Aunt Hannah, who is particularly fond of port, stands in the middle of the backyard and sings loudly. The children and dogs, after they wander down to the silent, white shore, come back for tea, sing carols around the piano, and then tell ghost tales in the gaslight.

The author remembers fondly how he and the village children found ways to annoy and mistreat each other (even resulting in a black eye), their family, by blowing up balloons until they pop beside the sleeping Uncles, and other elderly villagers, by putting snowballs into their letter slots, for example.

This is a classic example of remembering one's childhood through rose-colored glasses, when it was really mean, and cruel, and woefully unsupervised.

It was a different time.

This rambling remembrance, convoluted by time until no real order is discernable, meanders through a  Welsh village for forty-seven pages. I kept turning the pages because of the inimitable Trina Schart Hyman – every page has several of her illustrations. But that, I have to admit, is the only reason to continue. This memoir was, I guess, a nostalgic journey down memory lane for the author, but I can't imagine it would be for anyone else.

In spite of a few beautifully worded passages

this reminiscence is, I'm sorry to say, completely forgettable. There is no spiritual element to this most sacred of holidays besides a mention of Christmas caroling, a portrait of Christ as the Good Shepherd hanging on the author's bedroom wall, and the author's silent prayer, breathed to the “close and holy darkness” as he lays down at the end of the day.

Despite the illustrator's name, this is not really a work for children. If you are a die-hard fan of Dylan Thomas, or if you are collecting Trina Schart Hyman's complete body of work, you might want a copy.

Otherwise, skip it.

CONTENT CONSIDERATIONs

Elderly aunts are overly fond of port, elderberry wine, parsnip wine, and rum.

Uncles smoke cigars, children smoke candy “fags.”

Children are unkind to the villagers and animals. They throw snowballs. They whistle shrilly to the dogs so the dogs will wake elderly neighbors. They pretend to smoke their candy fags and then when reprimanded by an elderly lady, they eat them in front of her. They scare an aunt with a clockwork mouse and make her whimper.

A dog is sick.

One use of “by God.”

Reference is made to a boy who skated on the frozen pond, fell through, and drowned, and two young gentlemen, smoking pipes, who might have purposely walked into the sea and disappeared.