Better late than never
I will be 71 this Christmas, so there have been many Christmases, some wonderful, some sad and, as with most families, some catastrophic. Still, it has always been a wonderful time of year for me. But the best Christmas ever was the one we celebrated on Jan. 2, 1978.
My husband and I , with our two-and-a half-year-old son, had just moved to Toronto in November 1977. We were alone, not near any family members, not knowing any neighbours. And I was eight months pregnant! There was no real plan for Christmas, being focused on many other issues, but we did decorate a tree and do some quick shopping for our son.
My daughter decided to arrive right on schedule Dec. 23, so we made a hasty, hesitant and grovelling call to our neighbour we barely knew to babysit our son and off we rushed for the birth expecting to be home in a few days — maybe even Christmas Day. Complications arose and I was forced to spend a week in hospital. My Christmas Day there consisted of a bowl of red and green Jello, carol singing by some of the staff and my daughter arriving from the nursery swaddled in a Christmas stocking.
I arrived home on New Year’s Eve, tired and barely mobile and we attempted to adjust to being a family of four. On New Year's Day, we gathered our thoughts, and decided the next morning would be the exciting event. And it was magical! Our son erupted with the expected excitement of some new toys, while our daughter slept peacefully in her cot. There were gifts for us all from family members, although I have no memory of what they were. They did not seem important.
I sat with my daughter at times in my arms, my son and my husband playing new games and I experienced the most overwhelming feelings of joy, contentment, strength gained from overcoming adversity and a sense of being so blessed. We were a family and ready to share in everything that life would hit us with —together. It was not Christmas in any other homes that day but the spirit of Christmas was alive in our house and that’s all that mattered.
There were no visitors that day. It was very quiet. We settled for roast beef instead of turkey for dinner and, following in his mother’s childhood footsteps, my son threw up, being overcome with excitement.
But while other Christmas memories fade or merge together, I can always return to that perfect one, that simple one, Jan. 2, 1978, and relive the joy and peace I felt that day.
Barbara Barry
Victoria
Something to sing about
I grew up on a street in Toronto where neighbours got together for special occasions.
One of our the traditions was singing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve to neighbours on nearby streets, as well as to a transit operator. The leader would bring his guitar, and song sheets were given to each person.
Normally, we would just sing one or two verses, as it was generally pretty cold! Afterward, one of the families would host a dinner, along with Santa Claus. One year, when I was 11, I was given a hot toddie instead of a hot chocolate! This tradition went on for many years.
It has been more than 25 years since I last attended, and all the original neighbours have moved on to other areas. I do miss this, and do remember how important it is to sing and praise with your neighbours!
Jason Richardson
Happy birthday, Jesus
When my husband and I had three little children, we started the tradition of having a birthday cake with a candle to be lit first thing on Christmas morning. We would stand around the kitchen table and sing Happy Birthday to Jesus. I was touched recently to spend Christmas in Calgary with our youngest son and his family and with them sing Happy Birthday to Jesus on Christmas morning.
Hilda Shilliday
Sacrifices
As a 79-year-old man, I have a tendency to look back into the past.
Many Christmases have come and gone, but the one I remember is the Christmas of 1945.
The Second World War had just finished and the soldiers had returned from the war zones.
My family lived on the out skirts of a town in Queensland, Australia, and were struggling to exist. Ration cards were still in force and food was scarce.
I remember my father left the house early in the morning and was absent for four hours.
When I asked my mother where he was, she informed me that he had gone to the store to get something for Christmas. I was not concerned as I was seven years of age.
When he returned, my mother said it was time to open our Christmas gifts.
My gift that year was a glass cup and saucer filled with popcorn. My brother and two sisters received similar gifts. I can still taste that popcorn.
My mother set the dinner table and I finally discovered where my dad had disappeared to earlier in the day.
Our Christmas dinner consisted of a loaf of fresh bread that my father had walked three miles to purchase.
The taste of fresh bread and golden syrup was like manna from heaven.
Though many Christmases have come and gone, it is that Christmas I remember, and it is mainly because of the sacrifices my parents made to ensure that the family did not miss out on the festive season.
Trevor N. Kelly
Victoria
Santa is on the train
As a child, the most exciting part of Christmas was Santa Claus. One year, my sister and I were on a train trip to Prince George on the PGE Railway.
Two little girls, about six and seven, loving the clickity clack of the train. As Christmas Eve approached, we began to worry. How would Santa know we were not sleeping in our own beds that special night?
With many tears and hugs, we went to sleep in our own sleeping berth. Upon awaking Christmas morning, there on our beds were special dolls. So beautiful, so cherished, a thrill. An orange, some hard candies, and a special Children’s Own book from England.
What a blessing. He is truly an amazing Santa.
Shiela Abbott
A gift and tradition
A gift that has become part of my family’s Christmas has been the watching and sometimes the participation in a tradition that has been part of Christmas in Victoria for the past three decades.
This gift is the live pageant presented by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Topaz Park. My children and now my grandchildren watch and are inspired by this presentation.
Last year, my youngest daughter, her husband and their children joined my wife and me as participants in the “crowd” scene. This live re-enactment of the birth of Jesus requires hundreds of cast members, lamas, donkeys, sheep and, yes, a brand new baby. Friends of all faiths and backgrounds from the Victoria community and beyond have made this a family tradition that can’t be missed.
Over the years, those friends, colleagues and neighbours who initially attended as invited guests now eagerly await the pageant and have made it a tradition for themselves and their families.
As these individuals, families and groups gather and watch there is a true sense of community felt especially when the meaning of the season becomes crystal clear.
Accompanied by inspiring music, this gift to the community warms my heart and the hearts of all those who experience it.
Frank Hitchmough
Country Christmas 1996
Our family of four adults and two children were returning home to the Island for Christmas. The food preparations and decorating were done and by noon on Dec. 24 it started to snow — heavily. Our power went out and weather warnings were for continued snowfall.
We heard the power was still on at our church — four kilometres away — so we took turkey in roaster to the oven at the church kitchen and were able to baste it only once, as the road became impassable.
Christmas Eve dinner was done on the barbecue. Best ham ever with potatoes and veggies.
The evening was spent in candlelight with grandpa and the adults playing Monopoly, while gramma and the young children played kids’ games on the carpet.
The road was plowed that evening, so we were able to retrieve our turkey, and later attend Midnight Mass.
Upon arrival for mass, the turkey aroma filled the building and many commented that they were thinking of dinner on Christmas Day.
Today, more than 20 years later, the now grown grandchildren recall that special Christmas time above all other Christmases. No lights, no television, lots of snow and a very close family time.
A memorable Christmas.
V.J. Monkman (Gramma)
First Canadian Christmas
It is a long time ago that we immigrated from Essen, Germany, to Vancouver. Our arrival was July 5, 1957, at the Canadian National Railway on Main Street.
What is a vivid memory is our trans-Atlantic ship crossing from Bremer Hafen to Quebec City in the summer of 1957. It was a six-day journey by boat, the Neptunia. We left behind my grandparents and many relatives, not knowing when we would see them again.
Our schooling in Germany was from kindergarten to Grade 8 in one school. My sisters and I took the train to school from Essen-Huegel to Essen-Werden. It was only a 10-minute ride, but we had a ways to walk to school.
In Canada, we were sent to new Canadian classes for about three months to learn English. We were than placed in grade school according to our ages. I was 10, my sisters 12 and 14.
Our arrival at Vancouver CN station was remarkable, having travelled for three days across Canada by train, not in a sleeper coach but regular class. We actually made it having just a few suitcases each and the rest of our belongings being shipped separately. It was quite an adjustment. My parents could not get used to the white bread bought to make sandwiches on our trip. We were used to hardy rye breads.
The Lutheran church met us at the train station and helped us to find a house to accommodate the five of us. My parents were actively looking for work, but it was very difficult as they had little English. We used up all our life savings in a short while.
Christmas or Weihnachten is celebrated by most Europeans on Dec. 24. We did have a tree, but not very many decorations. We still used real candles affixed to this evergreen tree. It shimmered with the tinsel. We each had a present under the tree donated by the church. It was most welcoming for new immigrants to Canada and we were very thankful.
I still celebrate traditional Christmas Eve, with my children and grandchildren when we have our traditional German Christmas dinner with fish, noodles, potato salad and bread.
I have fond memories of Christmas Eve spent with my parents and my family. The best part is enjoying the spirit of Christmas and sharing with those who are less fortunate.
If the snow falls the night of Christmas Eve with all the beautiful lights around our town in Port Alberni, where I live, it is extra special, as it was in Germany so long ago.
Name withheld
Decorating on a Budget: Dutch Christmas, 1950s
My father disapproved of Christmas. My mother was pre-occupied with food preparation. Were it not for my teenage sister, Lenie, my Christmases would have been rather bleak. Thanks to her, they became memorable instead.
The war was over, but austerity reigned. In 1950, I was seven years old and I lived with my parents and my 14-year-old sister in a bleak little row house in a village on a small island on the west coast of the Netherlands. Our possessions were few, but thanks to my father’s garden, we had an abundance of home-grown vegetables.
My father did not disapprove of Christmas as such. He was a religious man and a regular churchgoer. He just frowned on the “heathen” symbols of Christmas — like Christmas trees and decorations. My mother was less rigid, but she was pre-occupied with dinner. My sister, Lenie, took it upon herself to decorate the house. This had to be done unobtrusively, so as not to upset our father. My father, though well aware of the preparations, pretended not to notice them.
Our decorations included a small artificial Christmas tree, a bowl of Mandarin oranges, pine-branch wall hangings and “potato candle holders.”
Each Christmas Eve, my mother hauled a tiny artificial Christmas tree out of the attic where it was stored for the rest of the year. This was my mother’s contribution to the decorating effort. She then escaped to her dimly lit kitchen to start preparation of Christmas dinner. My sister took care of the rest.
The little tree was about 18 inches tall and it had fold-up branches. There might have been some tree decorations, but I do not remember them. I do remember how my sister unfolded the branches, clipped candleholders to the tips of them and then fitted the candleholders with tiny candles. She positioned the tree beside a bowl of Mandarin oranges on the small sideboard that sat against the wall that separated our house from the neighbours. On the other side of the wall, I knew, was the neighbour’s Christmas tree — a real tree with coloured electric lights.
I was in awe of their tree and, even more, of the electric lights. Surely, I thought, they must be rich. In reality, the neighbours were no richer than we were. The husband worked for the hydro company and their hydro came free with the job.
Our house was not hooked up to electric power, hence our use of real candles. They were a fire hazard and, as a precaution, a pail of water sat on the floor beside the sideboard all through the holiday season. We did have to use it once as my uncle brushed against the tree and his jacket caught fire.
In preparation for this day, my sister had bought a box of tapered candles, several sheets of red and green crepe paper, and some ribbon. She had been “loitering” at a Christmas tree lot and had collected, free of charge, a decent supply of discarded Christmas tree branches. Other supplies needed for her decorating efforts were always on hand: a number of potatoes and a wad of zigzag cotton wool.
My sister attached the tree branches to the living room walls and decorated them with red ribbons and fluffed-up pieces of cotton wool. A Christmas-tree scent filled the room.
We had the tapered candles, but we did not own any candle holders. Not a problem for my sister. She made use of what we had — our abundant supply of potatoes.
Each potato was made into two candle holders. My sister cut the potato in half and then carved out a hole in the top to fit the candle. She cut a small slice off the rounded side of the potato to stabilize the bottom. Then she stuck the candle into the hole in the potato, wrapped potato and candle with crepe paper and secured them with a ribbon. After Christmas, we would unwrap the potatoes and eat them.
While my sister was taking care of the decorations in our warm living room, our mother was in our cold kitchen prepping our Christmas dinner. The bulk of Christmas dinner was pre-cooked on Christmas Eve and reheated the next day. Our Christmas dinner would be pretty much what we had each Sunday, except for the meat. The choice of meat for Christmas dinner was an important one and always a subject of much discussion among family and neighbours. Weeks before Christmas, I could hear the women ask each other: “What are you having this year?” Top choices for Christmas dinner were chicken, rabbit and pheasant. My mother’s favourite Christmas meat was “Rollade.” This is a Dutch-style roast made up from layers of pork, rolled in herbs and spices, then shaped into a loaf and secured with twine. On Christmas Eve, my mother seared the roast in a big pan on top of our gas cooktop, then left it to simmer all evening.
As per Dutch custom, our Christmas celebration excluded gifts. On St. Nicholas Day, three weeks earlier, I had received a colouring book from St. Nicholas and a chocolate letter “R” from my grandparents. On Christmas morning, we attended church. Except for the sermon, which dealt with the birth of Jesus, there was nothing to remind us of Christmas. The church interior was sombre as always. No Christmas carols were sung. It was wonderful to get home to a decorated house.
Ria Korteweg
The choir loft
My Christmas story took place between 1947 and 1953.
On the last weekend before Christmas, a cavalcade of four or five cars with neighbours and church members would embark on a drive out into the country. I don’t think we were much past the gravel pit in Colwood, where we would search for Christmas trees for our homes and four or five trees to be the backdrop of the manger scene at our parish church, Queen of Peace in Esquimalt. There would be Thermoses of hot chocolate and plenty of fun. We were even lucky enough to have snow one year while we were there.
In our parish, because so many people wanted to attend Midnight Mass, there was a regulation that no one below the age of 16 years was allowed to attend. Because both of our parents were in the choir, we were permitted to do so.
On Christmas Eve, we were put to bed around 7:30 p.m. to get some sleep. As you can expect, this was a dead loss because of the excitement and also the neighbours from across the street would make their yuletide visit. I am sure it would be around 9:30 or 10 when we finally drifted off.
We were awakened after 11 p.m. to prepare to attend Midnight Mass. My youngest sister was born on Dec. 9 and attended her first Midnight Mass at the age of 16 days in a wicker laundry basket in the sacristy with my grandmother. I usually felt sick because of all the excitement, so I would be sitting in the choir loft with my mother’s fur coat wrapped around me. The most important Christmas memory occurred when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother was a beautiful soprano and my father had a lovely tenor voice. During one Midnight Mass, my parents sang a duet of Adeste Fideles. I will never forget the pleasure and pride I felt as I listened and I knew then that I would never forget those moments.
After Mass we would return home where we were told we could not enter the living-room until we changed into our pyjamas. You can imagine the rush. We were then allowed to enter the living-room to see if Santa had visited. Sure enough, the lighted Christmas tree greeted us with presents under its branches.
You know, I cannot remember a Christmas dinner until the age of 11 or 12. I am positive there were many Christmas dinners, as the Christmas cakes and puddings were baked in November.
Now, would you really expect a child to remember a dinner when experiencing all of these Christmas traditions and memories?
Margaret Fleck
A small, happy miracle
Nearly Christmas and Bill was dying of cancer. His wife, Joyce, visited him every day in hospital and never ceased to rail about the injustice of God for ignoring her daily prayers for his recovery. “Your God is no ... good,” she snarled at their visiting minister, who simply smiled and asked about the lovely ceramic Christmas tree sitting on Bill’s locker, miniature lights shining on every branch.
“A friend brought it,” she grudgingly told the minister. “Bill loves it. He looks at it all the time.”
The next day was Christmas Eve and again the minister dropped in to visit, but this time it was to find Bill asleep and Joyce sitting muttering, her face a mask of fury. The Christmas tree was missing.
“Where’s … ?” he asked.
Joyce pointed to a black plastic bag under the bed.
“Stupid nurse tripped on the cord and smashed it,” she rasped.
When the minister got home that evening, he found his wife and three young sons making the last preparations for the big day to come.
“Look at this,” he said, and dumped the plastic bag on the table, opened it and revealed the myriad pieces of the broken Christmas tree. “Think we can put it together again for Bill?”
The boys went to their rooms and came back with an assortment of glue pots and paste, plastacine, crayons and water, oil and acrylic paints. By 9 p.m., the pieces were spread on the dining-room table and five people were busy sorting them, fitting them together, gluing and colouring. It was a slow and meticulous business, but four hours later, long past the boys’ bed times, the tree was fully reconstructed. With anticipation, they plugged it in and lo and behold all the little lights shone and the mended scars hardly showed.
On Christmas Day, the minister got up early and drove to the hospital. Having ascertained that Bill was asleep, he crept into his room and set the repaired Christmas tree on the bedside locker, taped the electric cord to the floor, plugged it in, turned it on and left.
No spectacular magic, just God using his people to create a small happy miracle.
Margaret Whitford
Parksville
The real spirit of the season
Ah, the magic and surprises of Christmas. Our family these days consists of four kids, three partners and five little ones — all of whom have been taking part in a cherished tradition for years.
Years ago on Thanksgiving, when everyone had gathered at our home, we said that we didn’t want Christmas presents any more, but hoped they would donate to a cause we treasured or to one important to them — and then write about it on a card for Christmas day. They were taken aback, but easily got into the spirit, and every Christmas morning we heard what everyone had done. Smiles, hugs, a tear or two ... it’s a unique and special time we all cherish.
Their choices are all diverse, imaginative and thoughtful. The donations have been everything from supporting medical causes to having their kids choose clothing, books and toys for little ones in less comfortable family circumstances. Surprises have included working on the renovation of a food bank, sending money to a friend on her way to help out an African medical clinic, buying special gifts for a little girl dealing with leukemia. One son and family cooked three turkeys, made Christmas food packages with all the trimmings for about 30 people on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. The recipients said they were angels.
The kids learned a lot, and we did, too — including that needs are year-round and visible in all our communities. For example, one son instituted soup making at his high school.
It is heartwarming that some extended family members and friends have also included part of our Christmas tradition. Now, it’s always hard to say which was our best Christmas. They are always very special.
Maggie Hayes
