You better watch out, you better not cry, better not pout, I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town ...

I don’t know about your place, but when we were kids, we were warned if the yard wasn’t cleaned up at Christmas then Santa wouldn’t come.

So my two brothers and I would put down the cricket bat and ball, mow the lawn, rake the leaves, weed the garden, clean up the rubbish, make sure there was plenty of firewood for the kitchen stove.

After all, there were those cakes, mince pies and puddings for mum to make.
Then it would be off to cut a branch from a pine tree, get out all the decorations, the red stockings, the stars and the tinsel.

Mum would even whip up some fake snow to put on the branches to make it looked more like the trees in the picture books.

At the same time we would be picking fruit from the orchard, plums, apricots, nectarines, for her to preserve in the Vacola jars. I don’t know how she coped. Summer time, the hot kitchen, three boys to feed as well as dad and the others out in the paddocks carting the hay.

Christmas was not only a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, but a time to sit back and catch your breath. A time of renewal. The hay was safely stacked away, next season’s crops had been planted.

It was a time to give thanks for what you had, what you had achieved. It was also a time to share what you had with others.

It doesn’t seem all that long ago my own daughter asked at breakfast: “Dad, tell me the truth.”

Oops. What’s going on here, I thought.

Eating breakfast together had been our special time in the day. A time for a bit of silliness before taking her to school on my way to work. Yet this sounded like a big question.

“Is there such a thing as Santa Claus?”

Whew. It wasn’t the question fathers eventually get from their daughters. That came a year or so later.

In this case, I was able to collect my senses and reply, “Shaneene, I would like to think so.”

I had always tried to be as honest as I could with her and her friends. So it was more a wish than anything else. A wish that has endured throughout the world for centuries.

It would be tragic if there was no small miracles, no surprises. If goodwill and charity were to be snuffed out like a candle on top of the pine tree.

Luckily, I was able to remind her of the school assembly a few days earlier which was a celebration of Christmas. The teachers showed how people around the world celebrated similar traditions – in Finland, Poland, Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, Russia, China and the South Pacific Islands ...

Santa Claus, Sinterklaas, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, Saint Nicholas of Myra was probably the primary inspiration. He was a 4th century Christian bishop from Byzantine Anatolia, now part of Turkey, and famous for his generous gifts to the poor.

Yet long before that there was the legend of Odin, a major god among the Germanic peoples.

Odin was described as riding an eight-legged horse named Sleipnir that could leap great distances, giving rise to comparisons to Santa Claus’ reindeer.

Children would place their boots, filled with carrots, straw or sugar, near the chimney for Odin’s flying horse to eat. Those children would be rewarded for their kindness by replacing Sleipnir’s food with gifts or candy.

This practice survived in Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands after the adoption of Christianity and became associated with Saint Nicholas. The tradition of a decorated tree is also believed to go back to Odin’s time.

In a wonderful gesture in the late 19th century, a group of Sami people from Finnmark in Norway took 500 reindeer to Alaska to teach the Inuit to herd them.

Today, organisations such as the Salvation Army are part of fundraising drives to aid needy families at Christmas time.

That spirit was perhaps no better captured than in the Charles Dickens classic, A Christmas Carol, when the most hardened businessman Scrooge was touched by the spirit of Christmas and became very benevolent.

Memories of that tale came flooding back to me while walking through the streets of London years ago, stopping to look in the windows at the decorations and the artificial snow on the sills, noticing how cold your hands are getting so you thrust them deeper into the pockets of your coat.

There’s a cold breeze on my face. But it’s a dry breeze, a breeze that brushes against your skin rather than caressing it. It can’t be, but it is – snow.

Within minutes the flakes are falling. Just a few. They float down and melt away on the footpath and in your hair.

You hurry on to Trafalgar Square to meet up with fellow expatriates gathered on the steps of St Martins In The Field. Together with about half of London and a massed choir of nurses singing Christmas carols. A beautiful moment as people from around the world join together in a common wish.
Peace on Earth and goodwill to all.

The snow is now inches deep on the pavement. It crunches under our footsteps as we walk through the cold night air to the little church near our flat for a midnight service.

In Australia it’s a time of year when families do their best to get together. Sons return from cattle stations out west, daughters fly back from New York, Paris or Rome. We gather for lunch on the back verandah, on the lawn or at the beach.

On behalf of the Daily’s property team, I wish everyone a safe and happy Christmas. And may we all experience one of the greatest gifts – the gift of giving, the giving of time, the giving of effort, the giving of love.

After all: He’s making a list, and checking it twice; gonna find out, who’s naughty and nice ...