| POINSETTIA GARDEN |
 |
| Christmas
Memories |
 |
| This was a Christmas letter I sent to my three grandnieces
Nicole, Christie and Lindsay several years ag0 |
|
|
|
| CHRISTMAS ON THE FARM
Hush, my children & gather around because Aunt Lucy is about to spin a tale of how she & brother Frank, your Grampa, enjoyed Christmas on the old homestead. Of course, Grampa being much older, he has more memories of the farm, so this will be much based on my Christmas memories which took place during World War II. We never had much of the material things but we didn't lack for warm clothes or food, & as children do, we took for granted our parents' & grandparents' love. The spruce tree was cut from our woods by our father Don & with the help of Frank, they would bring it into the farm house, while our mother Vera would tell them to mind that they shake the snow off both the tree & their boots. I can't quite remember exactly where in the livingroom the tree was stood, decorated with silver bells (they were made of hard pressed paper) that had lost most of their silver, which Mom replaced with foil from gum wrappers. Garlands of crepe paper were strung on the tree, & my favourite decoration, silver icicles were draped, one at a time, from each branch. When it came time for the tree to come down, these same icicles were carefully taken & placed back into their package to be used another year. While the package only cost a dime, that dime was not to be wasted. To this day, our icicles are taken down the same way, to be used again & again. I remember being excited that Santa would soon be coming & with the help of Mom, I had printed my letter to him, asking for a cap pistol as even though our neighbour boy Ronnie had carefully carved a wooden gun for me to use while we played Cowboys & Indians or Soldiers, usually in the livingroom on a wintery Saturday morning whenMom was doing her best to step over or around us & the turned-over chairs (the chairswere our forts) as she went about her work, a wooden gun was still a wooden gun. I also asked for some lead soldiers, perhaps a doll ( I do remember asking for a pram for my dolly but that had to wait until we later moved into the nearby village), & the usual bit of candy. Candy was not something we usually bought because of money & because the war had caused Canada to ration sugar, but at Christmas we always had hard, red & green peppermint candy. To this day, Christmas is not Christmas until I eat this kind of candy. Just the smell of it brings back the smell of the spruce tree, the Christmas paper wrap which had a much different odour than today's ( I suppose whatever the dye was, made it so distinct), the warmth & again the smell of the wood burning in the kitchen range & livingroom stove, our graceful shadows dancing across the walls from the glow of the oil lamps sitting on various tables, murmuring voices of our parents, our Grampa Frank & Gramma Lucy Ann, as they sat at the kitchen table or in the livingroom with their day's labours done. Christmas carols can be heard coming from the battery radio in the kitchen or Mom may sit at her piano in the livingroom, playing the carols while we sing along with her. Perhaps Dad will bring out his violin & play a simple tune along with Mom. He never had lessons to his ever-lasting regret, but he did his best to make a recognizable noise! Too soon, or maybe not soon enough for me, I was bundled off to my bed in the livingroom on the old fold-out leather couch where I tried & tried to go to sleep. At last my eyes closed, with thoughts of a "real" cap gun weaving their way through my six year-old mind. I can't remember getting up early that Christmas morning, most likely did, but I do remember the candy & an orange was in my sock, the gun & soldiers under the tree. There was no doll carriage, can't remember a doll but there usually was one. Instead there was a marvellous cardboard "stone" castle sitting beside the lead soldiers (of course, they were in the shape of our Canadian soldiers, right down to the hard hats, uniforms & rifles). While Mom & Gramma began to prepare the dinner, Dad, Grampa Frank & my brother Frank went about the daily farm chores--cows have to be milked twice a day, holiday or no holiday--I played "war" & enjoyed the look of the castle as it resembled so much the real castles in Europe that I had seen in the Toronto Star Weekly. After the turkey & trimmings were eaten, the grownups sitting about for the afternoon until time again to do the chores, I happily saw that several of the neighbour boys were coming up our lane to see what "Santa" had brought. Ronnie & the Miller brothers, Wilber & Floyd, admired my cap gun, saying it was much better than the wooden one. Then we went back to our swamp where we could skate, watching out that we didn't trip over grass or roots frozen in the ice. Wilber, the oldest of the two brothers, was used to taking care of his younger sister (& my best friend) who couldn't walk, so even though I was anxious to show off my newly acquired skating ability (my skates were hand-me-downs from Frank), he insisted it would be much safer if he pulled me on my sled the same as other years! There was no chance of us falling into any deep water there, as was very shallow, barely covering the swampy ground. All too quickly Christmas Day was over, the turkey a mere shadow of itself, mince pies & Christmas pudding well-eaten, everyone feeling as stuffed as the turkey had been, the dogs & cats asleep beneath the kitchen stove, all was well in our small home. Too soon, too soon, we would again be reading & listening to the horrors of the war of 1943, the year we thought our country might fall with Britain & go the way of France & the other European countries. The sound of the Nazi boots were all too real, even here. But for that one day, everyone put that worry aside (yes, even a wee six year-old child) & relish the joy of Christmas. So, my children, enjoy your Christmas's together for they will be the memories that warm your hearts in later years. Too soon, too soon, the years pass. Remember them well & share your stories, for that is how you will keep those who have gone before us still alive, still loved. Merry Christmas & God Bless! Love, Aunt Lucy |
|
|
|
| Christmas Eve In The Village Christmas Eve, 1950, the first time I was allowed to go carolling with the older teenagers in our small Ontario village of about 230. Aged 13, I remember wearing my beige winter coat, brown winter boots trimmed in fur, & the pale yellow angora beret & matching gloves my father had given me for Christmas the year before. As Mom always was in charge of selecting gifts, Dad’s present was a complete surprise, well, more of a shock! We were to meet outside beside Foster’s garage, across from the United Church. Our group of perhaps 15 was comprised of Anglican, Free Methodist & United Church young people. Two of the dentist’s daughters, Betty Ann & Pat, marched us through a short rehearsal of songs, so familiar we didn’‘t need the hymn books most of us were carrying. Betty Ann, soprano, sister Pat, alto, blended with other voices, my contralto included, making a joyous sound. Occasionally one of the 3 or 4 boys who were tagging along would mumble a line or two. The night was cold, crisp, maybe only 20F and falling. There had been a heavy snowfall a few days earlier, the sidewalks were filled, the township plow pushing enough aside to have small banks of snow along the road. Our boots crunched as we made our way, the yellow glow from the street lights aiding our passage through the dark streets. We paused to sing in front of brilliantly lit homes, spruce trees inside decorated with red & green crepe paper garlands, tinsel, glass balls & Noma Christmas lights. Red cellophane wreaths in the windows completed the holiday look. Some opened their doors, inviting us in to sing & to have a cup of chocolate. The latter we declined with thanks as we had other streets to do. At the beginning of my street was the stone Anglican church with its flying buttresses & 3 large arched window panes at the front end. The light shining through the glass with Christ in the centre one seemed to be the crowning touch of that evening. We didn’t realize then how short the time was that we were all going to be together , or that even the next year several of our group would be beginning their steps into the world, never to join their voices with our’s again. Two died too soon, Betty Ann one of them, our funny, exuberant friend who could have us bursting with laughter at her impression of Lucille Ball. Others left the old village to travel the world. Pat became a missionary, joining her husband to live in Africa where their children were born. On Christmas Eve, I hear our young, clear voices singing Silent Night or It Came Upon The Midnight Clear. The echo still resounds in my heart. |
|
|
|
| CHRISTMAS FOLLY While this is not exactly my favourite Christmas memory, it is certainly one of the more memorable ones. The 24th of December, 1978 was going to be a busy day. My brother, wife and 23 year old son, plus my widowed father, had been invited to join our family of five and my husband’s mother for dinner that afternoon. Although much had been done in preparation, I still had a zillion things to do and was in high gear even before leaping from bed. Hurriedly dressing, I rapped sharply on each bedroom door of my three off-spring, 21 year old son Jim, 19 year old daughter Louanne and 15 year old son Scott. My husband Ralph was already munching in the kitchen so at least one pair of feet was under the table. None of us are morning people and getting everyone down for breakfast was always a major accomplishment. With a quick confident stride I approached our stairs, thinking I most assuredly would be back upstairs at least twice more before all hands, especially our “Sleep of the Dead” Jim, would straggle into the kitchen. Our stairway has fifteen steps; the first five are straight, then two form sort of a landing but are wide at one side, tapering narrowly on the other. Remaining staircase is again straight. Descending the stairs, I had no difficulty with step one and two. Step three became the Big Problem when my foot slipped, throwing me on my back and sliding like a greased pig towards the landing. Thinking quickly, I reached for the banister. Well, that smart move only succeeded in flipping me over onto my tummy and I was now tobogganing head-first down the last section of stairs. It has been said that time seems to stand still during moments of crisis and I concur. Everything seemed to be in slow motion while several thoughts raced through my disbelieving mind. One–Good Grief! Is this ever going to end?! Two–I’m going to look more like Twiggy than Dolly Parton! Three–If I break anything, please let it be my left wrist so I can still stuff the turkey! Finally with a last kerwhumpth! I landed flat on the downstairs hall floor. Dimly I could hear bedroom doors being flung open, feet running and Louanne’s trembling voice asking if I was OK. Still face down, breath knocked out, I managed to croak “OK” and began to struggle dizzily to my feet. By this time Ralph was by my side and in his usual caring, loving manner, inquired “What did you think you were doing?!!”. All three kids said they knew I was fine when I growled back “Falling downstairs!! What did you think I was doing!!!!” Other than a bitten lip and a tiny bump on my forehead, I suffered no damage. After the first few moments of trying to stop my eyes from looking east and west at the same time while bright speckles danced around, I sat in my recliner, musing to myself that this little adventure was going to make a great Christmas letter in 1979 and what a successful way to get everyone out of bed at the same time, but I wouldn’t recommend doing that more than once. The rest of 1978 Christmas Eve passed without further mishap and I was thankful all could come, especially as it turned out that this family Christmas dinner was the last one my beloved Dad attended. Ah yes, 1978 Christmas Eve, forever known in our family as “The Day Maw Disco-Danced Down The Stairs”. |
|
|
|
 |
| Ralph and Lucy Christmas 1992 |
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |