My Christmas Memories

by Sharon Flax-Brutus

Christmas on Virgin Gorda was never a quiet thing.

It was an island affair — woven through the hills, the bays, the houses, and the people who made the season come alive.

We didn’t grow up waiting for Santa and his reindeer to land on rooftops.

We waited for him to arrive by boat, gliding across the sea under a sky full of stars, carried in by the Christmas breezes that softened the air and whispered that the season had come.

Those breezes were a season of their own.

The Christmas winds rustled through the tamarind trees, rattled shutters, and carried the scent of salt and excitement. Some years, the ground swells rolled in heavy and steady, crashing against the rocks like nature’s own drumbeat — the true soundtrack of a Virgin Gorda Christmas.

And of course, every home had its own Christmas centrepiece.

We didn’t have fir trees or snowy pines.

We had the Inkberry tree — our island Christmas tree.

Sparse but full of character, its branches perfectly spaced for tinsel, ornaments, and lights. We’d cut a fresh Inkberry, set it up proudly, and decorate it with whatever treasures we had. And somehow, every single year, it looked magical.

There was something about that tree — humble, creative, uniquely ours — that made it more special than anything in a store window.

The season began long before the 25th — with school Christmas programs.

You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t a star when I was chosen to play Mary, the mother of Jesus — central and important.

And one of the years they cast me as one of the Three Wise Men — yes, a girl boldly stepping into a “man’s” role — I think that was when I first knew I was destined to be a feminist. I wore that crown and carried that gift with more pride than the boys ever did.

That little stage was our Broadway, and I owned it.

And then came the smells — the true beginning of Christmas.

I can still see my grandmother bent over the outdoor oven, the kind blackened by decades of firewood and family stories.

Her fresh bread, just pulled from the coals, was so hot it burned your fingers — but that never stopped us from tearing off a piece and slathering it with Miss Filbert’s butter, letting it melt into warm perfection.

Her potato pudding baked alongside it, and she stirred the syrup for her homemade peppermint candies, each one a tiny miracle.

Meanwhile, my grandfather sat quietly in the doorway of his shop, smoking a Cuban cigar from his treasured cigar box. That image — framed in the doorway, with the Christmas winds curling the smoke into the air — is stitched forever into my memory.

Evenings were for listening.

Listening for the first voices of the carolers drifting down the road long before they reached our house. When they finally arrived, Mommy and Daddy brought out the guavaberry, rich and warm. As a child, I only got a forbidden sip — just enough to feel like Christmas had truly come.

And then there was the sound that made Christmas official:

The Poop Sax scratch band, a full fungi band going door to door, lifting the island with music and laughter. Their motto has stuck with me even now- “We don’t practice- we play,” and play they did.

Christmas morning was pure magic — bare feet racing across cool floors, hoping Santa had made it safely across the sea. And when we saw our gifts, all doubt disappeared.

As I grew older, the celebration expanded.

Christmas Eve belonged to North Sound —a big street party in the Bond and the Creek — with music blasting from early evening straight into sunrise. We danced in the street, moving from roadside bars like  Gunny,  Toots, Big Stop to Suggee, Poncho’s and beyond — each stop offered a different kind of joy and merriment.

And the night always ended the same way: breakfast at Leticia’s house, noisy, warm, and unforgettable.

Boxing Day was for food — cooking, eating, and going house-to-house to catch up with everyone you missed the day before.  If you didn’t get a taste of a Christmas bagged salt ham, there was no Christmas. 

Old Year’s Night meant church — welcoming the New Year with hymns or watching fireworks at Little Dix Bay — then dancing all night at Chateau and ending with breakfast at Flying Iguana.

Virgin Gorda knew how to celebrate — and we still do.

Christmas at home carried another tradition — one that was unique, I feel to my family.

My mother didn’t put up a pine tree nor an inkberry tree….

She used a beautiful century plant, tall and dramatic, its natural silhouette already a sculpture. She decorated it with tinsel, lights, and island flair, turning it into something unforgettable.

Even though she has been gone for eighteen years now, the tradition lives on.

Every Christmas, my sister decorates the century plant at Fischer’s Cove, keeping Mommy’s spirit alive. That tree, more than any store-bought one, reminds us of who we are — rooted, resourceful, proud, and full of love.

Today, Christmas has evolved — but the heart and traditions remain.

Santa arrives on a jetski, carolers travel by safari truck, and our guests enjoy coconut and guava tarts and our guavaberry wine.

The guavaberry still doesn’t taste quite like my grandmother’s — but at least now I don’t have to sneak a sip – I can enjoy a glass with no guilt.

Because on Virgin Gorda, Christmas isn’t about snow, fir trees, or crowded malls.

It’s about memory, tradition, the Christmas breezes, the winds, the ground swells, the Inkberry tree, the century plant, and the joy of a small island that celebrates as one.

And the beauty of it all?

Christmas in VG is still special.

It still wraps its arms around you.

And it always will.