At the age of seven, even viewed through a veil of scepticism about the existence of Santa Claus, Christmas was a very special time for our family. There were just four of us children; the others were aged five, four, and one - three more children would show up later on down the road. We had moved from Spanish Point two years earlier, leaving a house with an enormous front yard, or so we thought. A visit back there recently revealed a tiny cottage nestled on a postage stamp size lot. A big move it was, then, to a half-acre yard, tons of room for chickens and ducks, and dogs and cats and an old, run-down house. It had one 500-gallon water tank and a hand pump for water only in the kitchen. In many ways, things were primitive. We did not care; what we did know was that only two children had to share a bedroom.

The centre of that home, our kitchen did not remotely resemble the gourmet-traffic-aisle-patterns of today's home replete with microwave, convection oven and barbecue ovens, dishwasher, ice and cold water refrigerators and freezers. Moreover, it was some time before the hand pump was replaced with real live water running from a tap. We are accustomed to that convenience now, more or less. Mostly our kitchens today are used for heating pre-packaged food. Because we are now too busy.

So with four children, a home needing major renovations, a mortgage, a Dad who was self-employed and rode a pedal bicycle to work, no automobile, and precious little else, our mother became the ultimate scrounger and inventor of recycling. It is difficult to recall in much detail what we received for Christmas in those days, but what we do remember is that the tree was surrounded by presents and every child had at least six to open. Many of presents were made by hand, or rediscovered from someone else's toy box.

In that context, nothing has changed, clothes as gifts were even then not interesting, pyjamas even worse, but books, toys and games were desperately craved. During the first summer at our own home, I had taught myself how to ride my father's bicycle, by crouching underneath the cross bar, gripping the handlebars and balancing at an odd angle, holding on for dear life. That Christmas, outside the front door stood a girl's one-speed pedal bike complete with a wicker basket. It was not new, but it was mine!

Afterward, our mother put on a huge Christmas dinner, almost always inviting someone who had no one, to sit through the brawling of four noisy children. Mostly, this strange company did not seem to mind our antics, it probably made them thankful to head home to their own serene surroundings.

Our church had established a Christmas party tradition, always held the first Sunday after Christmas. For me, this was the frosting on the cake, mitigating the letdown after all the Christmas gifts were opened. At the party, every child received a present from Santa himself, and the long-awaited stocking bag full of candy. In the toe of the bag rested one orange (no seeds), and one red, juicy red five-dimpled apple. In a child's mind, the church presents were OK, but those stockings were wonderful. I had never seen an apple and an orange that were so perfect, all for me to eat and not to share. While this type of imported fruit was becoming more commonly available in Bermudian grocery stores, our mother never bought such things too costly.

It was years later when I was able identify them as navel oranges and Washington State apples. But, back then, little did we know that our own fruit trees planted by our father had better, healthier, fresher fruit. We wanted the store-bought kind because they looked so perfect, they must be the best. Those Church parties lasted for another five years, each time the eagerly awaited stocking was given again. Then one year they just stopped, and an era was over.

Today we consider it our right to choose multiple varieties of many kinds of food, clothing, cars, homes, jewellery, and blithely, we assume that these things will always be there. Ours for the taking.

But what if, you only had a choice of an apple, an orange, or a bag of candy? Would your lives be somehow diminished, or would you feel finally complete, living simply so that others may simply live?

Remember this holiday season there are those who do not have choices. It does not matter what is there to choose; they will not be able to have it, whether the cause through sickness, famine, economic deprivation, sublimation of human rights, illiteracy, and misfortune. Take the proceeds of one gift and choose to give it to someone else less fortunate. You could be the one to make the difference, in helping them to reach the same plateau as the rest of us - that is having the right to choose.

Merry Christmas, readers.

In memory of our mother, Anna Clarine Sawyer

Martha Harris Myron CPA CFPT is a Bermudian, a Certified Financial PlannerT(US license) practitioner and VP and Manager, Personal Financial Services, Bank of Bermuda. She holds a NASD Series 7 license, is a former US tax practitioner, and is the winner 2001-The Bermudian Magazine - Best of Bermuda Gold Award for Investment Advice. Confidential Email can be directed to marthamyron@northrock.bm

The article expresses the opinion of the author alone, and not necessarily that of Bank of Bermuda. Under no circumstances is this advice to be taken as a recommendation to buy or sell investment products or as a promotion for financial plans.