The first year of my life in St Lucia was my first Christmas away from my family and home. So needless to say I was, well, wistful would be a good word. My family has some long standing traditions and I knew it would be difficult to release them, most of them anyway. Since birth, my family has always celebrated heavily with the big Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve around 6:00pm so that we were finished in time to race up to the church a few blocks away and attend service at our Christian Church.

Now the mere fact that the name is The (location) Christian Church, has always raised eyebrows from people when I’ve been asked what religion I am. I am a Christian in my definition of the terms. But not everyone’s definition of that word is the same. I believe in God and Jesus. I could carry on about what other people seem to think that means, but I won’t bore you, today, anyway.

Nevertheless, I do love the tradition of going to church on Christmas Eve, singing the beautiful carols which always remind me of my sweet grandmother who passed on a December 22 years ago. Then after I blubber through all that and my nose is dripping profusely, comes the point in the ritual that we are all passed little white candles with a paper fitted around them to catch the slowly dripping wax from burning your hand. As the candles are lit and the lights are dimmed just to the point where you can’t see what you are doing, you are required to now balance your dripping candle, program, handbag and probably a coat, scarf and gloves and begin to solemnly form a large circle around the interior perimeter of the church. This is after taking a sip from a goblet that everyone else does and pinch a piece of bread from the same loaf that everyone else has with their dripping winter nose infested fingers.

It just makes you want to Purell the universe. Now trust me, this was never the program during my childhood or ever, for that matter! No, a minister started this barbaric ring around the rosy about 10 or 15 years ago. I have tried and tried to have my family persuade him to let us remain in our seats to catch fire, but no one wanted “to rock the boat.”

So anyway, I am in St Lucia and it’s late November and the rains slow down considerably and keep themselves contained until the wee hours of the night so that the tropical plants , rain forests and waterfalls can replenish themselves, but we don’t have to muck around in the mud quite as much. The days are very sunny, but there seems to be a “Christmas breeze” in the air. Now keep in mind, that December 1 not only signifies the beginning of THE SEASON in the Caribbean, where tourists begin to drift towards warmer climates and everyone starts scrubbing up as if long lost family were coming home. And essentially that’s what THE SEASON is all about. People traveling to see other people, whether they are long time friends, family members or tourists, it is the season to connect. But December also marks the end of hurricane season, where a bit of sprucing up is necessary.

Along with that breeze come some beautiful butterflies. White, yellow, orange all so very delicate, flirting with each other while they bounce from flower to flower. The birds are all chirping and happy singing Christmas carols. Then suddenly, BAM! A loud burst reverberates through the peaceful valley followed by two more. I am thinking to myself, “Oh I sure hope that’s not gang-related.” Then I remember the bamboo. My fiancé, at the time, told me about the big pieces of bamboo they would chop as children and drag home to fill with straw and all kinds of things. They would then point it to the sky and light their home- made fuse and BAM, a burst that will make you want to run for cover, or take another shot of rum.

Speaking of rum. Caribbean nationals love their rum. No, I mean they really love their rum. And anything containing alcohol is considered “rum.” Throughout the year, there are several festivities a month and everyone takes part and rum and Caribbean beer flow freely. In fact, those beverages run freely pretty much seven days a week, year around. But at Christmas, it is a whole new level of partying. I thought I had a fairly decent tolerance for liquor but the stamina I spent years acquiring has diminished quickly as I age. Two drinks and I am out like a light. Of real Caribbean rum that is. Out sleeping like a newborn baby. Now my stomach retaliates too.

I am pretty much a wino. Give me my wine and I can hang pretty well. But the rum, well I might as well just get my jammies on before I even take a sip. So the evening of my first Christmas, my fiancé grilled some great fresh fish and lobster and we ate well. I knew I would need a base going. But as usual, the rum ring got cracked, the coke fizzed and before I knew it, I was heading down the path. The neighborhood boys started smelling the heavenly seasoned grill and began wandering in, the second bottle was suddenly opened and it wasn’t long before I was sitting in the front seat of a 1982 Mitsubishi Truck, with the back full of about a dozen local 20 something year olds and my fiancé driving with the stereo at full capacity to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” with a reggae beat. I think I smelled something evergreen burning in the back of the pick up too.

I kind of remember going to some little village where hundreds of people were crowded and dancing and singing in the streets. The lights were bright. There was a big party going on at a local rum shop and the massive PA system had been set up outside to give the whole town the chance to party. The majority of the people wouldn’t have paid the admission to go into the small and crowded little bar anyway. No, outside at least I could try to inhale some fresh air and snap out of it.

But I fumbled, and asked my fiancé to walk me back to the truck. I lay down comfortably on the front seat and told my sweetie to go and enjoy himself. I would be just fine. And I had a lovely slumber while the party continued for hours until the sun started to come up. Apparently, the boys had all taken turns to go the pick up to peak in the window and make sure I was safe about every ten minutes. They have always been excellent body guards.

Then everyone boarded the truck, inside and out, and off we went singing loudly waking villagers all the way home. That’s how they celebrate Christmas in the Caribbean. I still can’t really hang with the rum but I plan to give it another try this year, with a nice bottle of Pinot Noir. Sure beats the ring around the rosy thing back home, or does it?