MUSTARD

Dear Harry,

It's a good day to celebrate your skill, your artistry. I wish I knew the whereabouts of that early picture of you in your black cassock and white dog collar in your wood shop in Newcastle, bent over your treadle saw, hands guiding the wood past the blade as you concentrated on the making of some object--perhaps a toy for your children as you used to do every year at this time for Christmas gifts. 

Do you remember this little mustard pot and spoon?

I came across it this morning in the pantry in our kitchen. No mustard in it--we'd need the bright yellow Coleman's powder used to stir into that hot English mustard, a condiment that we buy these days, sadly, ready-mixed. But it's still a beautifully made little object and it reminds me of your love of wood and your skill in working with it as the medium for the craft you practiced as a hobby throughout your life. 

Those Christmas gifts! How eagerly we awaited them, my sister and I. How we wondered what could be taking shape behind the forbidden door of your workshop. How anxiously we waited, after stocking time on Christmas morning, for the hours to pass before present-opening time, after tea, late afternoon--because Christmas Day was a busy one for you in church, with Holy Communion, Parish Mass and Mattins all before Christmas dinner in the middle of the day. And after dinner there was your nap time--there was no interrupting that ritual--and tea with fruit cake in its delicious coat of marzipan and hard white icing.

Only then we were allowed to open our big presents, always hand-made by you. When I was quite little there was the big red railway engine--big enough for me to sit astride and propel along with my feet on either side. During the war there was the aerodrome complete with hangars, wind socks, runways, and model Spitfires. For my sister there was the big, walk-in dolls' house with every item of furniture carefully made--the bed, the chairs, the table and the (working!) chest of drawers; and, when she was a little older, the kidney-shaped dressing table scaled perfectly to her size. 

It was later, in retirement I believe, that you learned to turn out beautiful objects on the lathe--objects like the mustard pot I happened on this morning, bowls and candlesticks, little side plates, pepper- and salt-mills... all things that could be loved, and touched, and used around the house. What a gift that was, Harry, and what a gift to be able to give these things away as gifts that others still treasure in their lives. It's a good time now, around Christmas, to celebrate that gift in memory, your skillful hands, your vision, and the patience it took to bring such lovely things into the world.

I, a useless klutz with everything except, perhaps, words, am humbled when I look at this humble little mustard pot and recall the man who made it.

With love at Christmas time, your son,

Peter