As a child in what was then rural St Catherine this was my favourite time of year. It still is. Whether or not you celebrate, and whether or not you believe in the three wise men, Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus in the manger, and the star in the sky, Christmas in Jamaica is still the most wonderful time of the year. It usually means a combination of four important things – family, friends, food, and fun.

Christmas is filled with memories and customs that are very specific to Jamaican culture and the lives that different people have carved out for themselves and their families. Now that I can look way back at it, I have such fond memories of that big metal washpan filled with plastic flowers that I had to wash in preparation for the season. I remember washing each petal, leaf and stem, groaning and complaining all the way, but they had to be washed spotless as per my mother’s directive. The crotchet doilies on the tables and the runners on the dresser, and every other such thing, also had to be washed. Then they had to be starched and ironed stiff to be returned in all their creative glory to the different surfaces. Every single piece of curtain or drapery had to be taken down, washed, and ironed — unless, of course, new ones had been bought or made to replace them. Every cushion cover had to be washed and ironed, or replaced by ‘Christmassy’ ones. Bed sheets had to be changed, oftentimes replaced by the huge, heavy bedspreads with the fancy-threaded patterns that some distant relative had sent from England. Every single piece of crockery and cutlery in the cabinet had to be taken out, washed, dried, and polished carefully. The cabinet had to be cleaned and shined and the glass polished. Then, new lacy doilies were put on the shelves and everything returned carefully to their original positions. Of course, they weren’t going to be used. I used to marvel at that fact, groaning under my breath.

The outdoors wasn’t spared, as there was the cutting of the yard, trimming of plants, sweeping and cleaning, and then whitewashing of every tree base, every curb, and those rings of stones placed around plants or trees. That was fun! Splashing each other with the brush and getting yourself messed up in the process. Those days everyone had to play their part in what was really a huge spring-cleaning at the end of the year. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” we were told.

There was a time when all sodas were sold in glass bottles. Collecting these D&G (Desnoes & Geddes) bottles at the end of the year, washing them, putting them in crates or bundles, and exchanging them for a crate or so of aerated water (as we called it then) was a joy! Kola champagne and grape and orange and cream soda were my favourites in that order. Of course, you never usually got a whole bottle to yourself, but, if you were going to get lucky, Christmas would be the time.

Red sorrel means Christmas, even though now it is sometimes available at different times throughout the year. Back then we got the sorrel in bundles at the market. The red calyx had to be removed from the seed by hand, while always being careful to not get too many of the almost invisible little prickles into your skin as they itched almost like the dreaded “cow-itch”. Today you can get nicely pre-picked sorrel in bags, or buy the ready-made juice in bottles. But the ritual of picking and making the actual sorrel drink from scratch was such an important part of Christmas. Everybody had some twist to their recipe, including how long to ferment; rice in the sorrel; more rum, less rum; more ginger, less ginger; Red Label wine; syrup; molasses; and all kinds of twists and turns.

And, if you were lucky, there was Christmas fruitcake black and rich with fruits, and sometimes a little too much rum, which came with a lot of work. Rubbing butter and sugar with a wooden spoon is no joke, but this was before we had the luxury of mixers and blenders. But some baking had to go on so we rubbed and whisked and mixed and prepared. Like the sorrel, you can now get cakes to buy from all over. Everyone is a baker at Christmas, quoting your fancy figures per pound and showing testimonials from happy customers. Stores sell ready-made cakes. People join long lines, sometimes getting into near-fights, waiting on the next batch at some of the more popular places. Things change, but cake is still in the mix.

A friend recently posted pictures online of a sighting of a Junkanoo band in Kingston. Like sorrel, Junkanoo meant Christmas back then. I can still hear the drums beating boom, budu, boom, budu, boom, budu, boom coming around Gillette Street, heralding the oncoming Junkanoo band. As a child, I was at first terrified of the “horsehead” and the “devil”, but found the “belly woman” and the “pitchy-patchy” so entertaining. We would come out of our yards, stand on the side of the street, and watch the Junkanoo band go by, dancing and prancing to the sound of the drum. It took me some time to realise that these fantastic and frightening figures were actually men from my community that I knew and loved, who were simply taking part in a ritual to celebrate our heritage and culture.

One of the biggest and most profound memories that I still treasure is of ‘grand market’ in Linstead. Nothing has ever topped that. That was the only night, as a child, that we were freed from curfews, parental leashes, and allowed to roam the entire town from top to bottom until the first rays of dawn began to light the eastern sky. King Street, Fletcher’s Avenue, and every single road and avenue leading off were blocked solid with vendors and bodies and music blaring from every corner. Everyone who had come from “foreign” would be walking the streets. People would come into Linstead from Kingston, Spanish Town, the 13 outlying communities, and all over Jamaica to be at the legendary Linstead grand market on December 24. As children, we could go into every shop, bar, and activity, peeking and pushing. And we had our own money to spend on whatever we wanted. Every adult family member we met would be ‘taxed’. That was a wonderful time and we made great memories.

Christmas means many things to many Jamaicans at home and abroad. Many family members and friends come home. Some come home to rural communities from Kingston and other urban centres. Others come home from colder climes abroad, often carrying parcels and barrels of gifts and household items. People attend parties, go to carol services, and some make their seasonal visits to church. Others engage in philanthropic activities, giving back to the less fortunate and sharing their bounty. The season is usually filled with a great deal of togetherness and camaraderie and love. But many people also get sad at this time. This is so because at Christmas the memory of someone they loved who has left because of death, divorce, or separation of some sort, is always more pronounced. If you live alone and have few friends and little contact with family, this time is hard. The joy to the world doesn’t stop at your door. As one friend stated, “I’m just going to try and sleep through the whole thing; only coming up for air and to have meals.” So, remember to check in on your family members and friends who may be having a difficult time this Christmas. It is the season for giving, and your time and expression of care is also a great gift.

However you celebrate, whatever customs and rituals you engage in, whatever memories you hold dear, and whoever you share this time with, do be gentle with yourself and make every effort to enjoy the family, friends, food, and fun that do come your way this holiday season.

Donna P Hope, PhD, is professor of culture, gender and society at The University of the West Indies. Send comments to the Observer or dqueen13@hotmail.com.