The waltons’ wonderful Christmas of 1955
Hey Karen,’ Matt said thoughtfully over the remains of his breakfast lamb chops, ‘do you think the girls still believe in Father Christmas?’
Karen looked up from her grapefruit and gazed out the kitchen window at the twins in the backyard. They’d gobbled down their Weet-Bix and were now playing ‘whizzies’ with the Hills Hoist, which they’d lowered to the requisite height. Later in the day, as the mid-December heat sizzled, the garden sprinkler would become the favoured plaything.
‘I really couldn’t say,’ she replied. She hadn’t given the matter much thought to be honest. ‘Probably not. They’re six years old, they go to school, and I suppose children talk about these things. Why do you ask?’
‘Some of the staff were discussing the subject yesterday at morning tea break. You know, whether their kids had discovered Father Christmas was a myth; what age kids tended to wake up to the fact; whether the fantasy should be encouraged or not – that sort of thing.’ Matt mopped the lamb fat up with his toast, relishing every mouthful. He would have chops for breakfast every day if he could, but Karen loathed cooking meat first thing in the morning – ‘the smell,’ she’d say, ‘oh yuck’
