My mother loved the Christmas season, and what I remember most about her is that on Christmas Eve she would take down all the curtains in the house, all the dollies she crocheted, and she would change the curtains and place matching dollies on the tables: the centre table, the side tables, the dressers and night stands. She had loads of dollies that she crocheted, and they matched the curtains. She would have washed, starched then pressed them, all in preparation, all in care.

Last night I have took out a few of the dollies that she made for me. I don’t necessarily use them all the time like she did, my aesthetic is little different, but she made these with love, and they are beautiful as creative pieces. We don’t often think of women like my mother, who crocheted and knit functional things, as artists/creatives, but they were. She was an artist in her own regard. She loved to make the house look beautiful and new for the season.

In addition to that, she would bake fruit cake or black cake, and I would lick the pans clean. She would make ham with pineapple and cherries. I’m not sure how all that tradition came to be, but she followed it faithfully. She would make sorrel and other things. She gloried in the season.

I remember one Christmas in particular, because like me, she didn’t believe in cutting down trees just to decorate them and throw them away. So she and I went into the forest nearby. She found an old tree that was already dead, and we dragged it all the way out of the forest. She painted it silver and decorated it, and I remember thinking that it was one of the best Christmas trees we ever had.

Although a number of females writers have said this,  I too must concur that I am a product of my mother, and in more ways than one that is true. My creativity, my love for decorating, my love for plants and nature; these are gifts she bequeathed me. I remember seeing her, as I was growing up, always attending to her plants. Sometimes when she came home from work, even before she took off her work clothes, she would stop to water the garden. She loved her geraniums. She planted bananas. She was multi-talented and multi-creative.

I thank her. I pour libation for her. I call out her name: Catherine James Palmer, in honour of her, in her love and in her laughter. She was a woman who laughed; she laughed with her eyes and her mouth, her whole body. I am grateful that I am her daughter.

So here’s to you, Catherine.
I raise my glass and offer a toast.
I pour libation on the ground that you will never be thirst.

I thank you for your creativity and showering me with love.

Asé