There are the Christmas classics that are known and loved from birth, then there are classics that are happened upon later in life and cherished all the more for it. I’m sure Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales falls into the first category for many, but this short story written in that familiar Thomas lilt has been an unexpected treat for me this year – a wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, mischievous memory of a childhood Christmas. And, of course, never-seen-again, epic tales of snow.
“Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.”
Then a further treasure discovered… Dylan Thomas himself reading A Child’s Christmas in Wales at Steinway Hall, New York in 1952. Listen by the light of the Christmas Tree, with the busy world lost outside – a new Christmas tradition to be relished.