Eighty years ago preparing for Christmas engendered as much excitement as the holiday itself.

Iris Maxwell, a mother and grandmother who was born on October 30, 1913 in the Toevlugt area, some six miles south of Vreed-en-Hoop, West Bank Demerara, still has cherished recollections of her childhood Christmases. Still nimble in both body and mind, she gyrated while recounting the merriment that she and four siblings shared during the yuletide season.

In those days Toevlugt, where an old Dutch sugar estate once flourished, had large trees, clusters of bushes, and very few houses. Maxwell recalls the enthusiasm with which she and her siblings tackled the cleaning, sanding and polishing of the furniture in their home. Then there was the excitement that filled the air as new curtains fluttered in the breeze; the joy that the little gift-wrapped toys brought the children and the satisfaction experienced by all in the sharing of the Christmas meal.

Christmas meant the world to them. There were no radios in that little village and the singing of Christmas carols was refreshing. Christmas also meant responsibility and posed a challenge. To augment the limited family income, some weeks before Christmas, they resorted to picking jamoons and baby jamoons to sell to wine manufacturers in the city. Maxwell remembers selling the berries to wine producers such as Correia and Sue-A-Quan and collecting "shining shillings," ringing pennies, and a small portion of wine as well.

"The retention of cultural and religious family values in any society is not really an easy task as time erodes common practices. However, a glance at the joy and happiness that Christmas brought to families and communities during the Christmas days of years gone by leaves a taste of bitterness and disappointment in one's mouth"

Ninety-one-year-old Philomena Stephens resides less than two miles from Maxwell. "My uncle was a baker," she recalled. Apart from baking his own bread and cakes for sale at Christmas time, he also provided heat and oven space to other residents. For Stephens and her school friends, December each year ushered in an enthusiasm that was unmatched by the other 11 months of the calendar.

School work took second place to shepherds in the manger and the three wise men. Singing carols in schools and holding Christmas concerts all helped to increase interest in the coming holidays. Housework was undertaken at a much brisker pace; thoughts of the mouth-watering Christmas menu and the mysterious, all-knowing Santa Claus energising all. "I was eight years old," said the mother of one daughter and 13 sons, recalling when her uncle started to send her out at Christmas time, fully loaded, to deliver goodies to his regular customers, and to residents in need.

What was Christmas Day like? She vividly recalls that it was lots of work, but there was satisfaction. A strong believer in Christ, she was born into a family which did a lot of sharing on Christmas Day. Her baker uncle used to produce "frigazzy" chicken, pot roast chicken, roast pork and bacon, salt fish fried with generous amounts of onions and tomatoes, mugs of coffee, tea, and cocoa, and the traditional garlic pork. Friends, relatives and neighbours regularly dropped in to share at their table.

Did she believe in Santa Claus? Stephens laughed remembering the Christmas when she was nine. Her father had just died and her mother had toiled all day on Christmas Eve and almost all night, she said, putting her to sleep. But, Stephens said, she awoke in the wee hours of Christmas Day and saw her mother tiptoeing to slip her neatly wrapped gift into her hung-up stocking. "So you are the Santa Claus," she said, startling her mother, and then adding, "Thank you Santa."

For her and other residents in rural Guyana in those days, when they depended on the moon to facilitate their outdoor activities, Christmas carolling meant something special. Often when it rained, she said, they would brave the drizzles, wend their way through "putta putta" (mud) to belt out carols early on Christmas morning.

This was a treat that almost rivalled the niceties which awaited them at the breakfast table. For shut-ins who were unable to attend the traditional early Christmas morning service, this meant a lot.

For many youths, Christmas time meant the day was close when their parents would say it was okay for them to open their 'puzzling' tins (piggy banks) and remove their cents, pennies or jills, bits (eight cents), six cents, and shillings (24 and later 25 cents). Often, for the good savers, mom and dad would add to their accumulated sums to enable them to make their purchases for the holidays.

The retention of cultural and religious family values in any society is not really an easy task as time erodes common practices. However, a glance at the joy and happiness that Christmas brought to families and communities during the Christmas days of years gone by leaves a taste of bitterness and disappointment in one's mouth.

Many persons' thoughts continue to linger on the warmth that the Christmas season fostered in those days. They readily recall the atmosphere of peace that the season ushered in with an automatic effect so contagious it caused persons, enemies just a few weeks ago, "to pick pluck", as an aged citizen commented, to say to each other, "compliments of the season". More often than not this greeting was issued with such warmth that the ice readily melted, and cheerfulness took the place of gloom and bitterness. There was also an air of expectancy that obtained as the Christmas holidays approached, clearly distinguishing that period from the remainder of the year.

The infamous centipede bands
Competition among masquerade bands is now encouraged, especially during Mashramani celebrations. Long ago competition was so fierce that it led to armed combat, when bands invaded each other's "territory". The fighting became so severe that the administration in then British Guiana considered it necessary to place a ban on all masquerade bands operating in the city. This ban was lifted in time for independence, when the late Frank Pilgrim, then public relations officer, in the Prime Minister's Office, persuaded the late Forbes Burnham to do so.

The move to introduce the ban in the city followed years of clashes among those masquerade bands known as the centipede bands which were known for good music, splendid flouncing, high consumption of alcohol, stick fighting, and carrying razors which they used to slash rivals' skin.

The centipede bands, so named perhaps because they would attack and sting without provocation, operated like the street gangs now prevalent in metropolitan cities. One band just had to spy or hear another for the music and flouncing to give way to a fever-pitch battle, fought in the open street. One memorable fight took place at the junction of Camp and Croal streets in the pre-independence era. An eyewitness recalled that pedestrians and cyclists were caught in the middle of two bands, which were approaching from different directions. When the melee began some people panicked jumped off their bikes and took to the nearby trench to escape.