Open Writing

My father was Scottish, and in the aftermath of World War II, when England was on rations for almost everything, his native thrift was allowed full rein. 'Your mither'd nip a currant in two', he'd say with pride when he came home on leave. 'She c'n mak a meal oot o' a' dishcloth.'

Despite that we always cleaned our plates. One year from 'over there' he sent us a Christmas card that epitomized his style. None of that soppy stuff for him; he belonged tae Glasgae. It had colourful caricatures of three Scotsmen of various ages and stages of sobriety, posting envelopes into bright red pillar boxes topped with snow. They had all the tartan kilts and tam-o-shanters, sporrans and knobbly knees a Glaswegian could wish for, and the words were unforgettable: 'McTavish sent it to McLeod ... who sent it to McHugh ... who sent it on to me, and now ... I'm sending it to you!'

That made a big impression on my mother, or perhaps it was an in joke between my dad and her. Recycling was de rigueur in those days of enforced frugality, but my mother went the extra mile when it came to greetings cards. She'd keep the ones with the nicest words and carefully cut out the signatures of the original senders before posting the cards to another friend. 'It's the thought that counts,' she'd protest, and she gave us lots of thought. Maybe she was eccentric; maybe she was ahead of her time.

Today we recycle internet jokes or sentimentally captioned photos to scores of friends, with far less consideration. What would our forebears think of our spendthrift ways in these days of local peace, plenty and inequality? Half the world starves while the other wallows obesely in its own detritus. 'Serves you right,' they'd say. Yes, I have to hand it to my funny, peculiar parents, then I'll hand it on to you.

© Christina Ratcliffe

Christina writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please vist www.bonzer.org.au