Trapper story a tradition
Prior to our road trips, I used to visit the library to borrow various story cassette tapes to listen along the highways.
There was one, in particular, that sparked my interest and would pass through my thoughts many times over the years. One Christmas morning opening presents, lo and behold, I found the book How John Norton The Trapper Kept His Christmas. The book was written in 1890. My dear husband located it on the internet. It travelled to our home from Oregon. There are 109 pages and each one has touched me so deeply. I can picture this old trapper sitting in the cabin accompanied by two loyal hounds, cosy by the fireplace, a contented man with a happy soul. It is so easy to place oneself in this cabin with such a charismatic person. The writing is old fashioned and gives such a description of how life was in those bygone days. He was very generous of the little he possessed and he would bestow on others who were without food, clothing or gifts for the Yuletide celebration. Reading this book is one of my favourite traditions of the Christmas season. Our copy was printed in 1911, more than a hundred years ago, and I wonder how many others have enjoyed our book over the years.
Cindy Winkle
An upside-down Christmas
One of my fondest memories at Christmas was our tree.
When my children were young many years ago, it was wonderful to decorate and put gifts under our tree.
However, having two dogs sometimes created issues under the tree! I decided to place the tree where dogs couldn’t go, and so hanging the tree from the ceiling upside down was the answer.
Yes, it was real and was unbelievable to friends when they visited.
Last year, on Dec. 6 in the Times Colonist, an upside-down Christmas tree was displayed at the Empress Hotel (during the annual Festival of Trees celebration). It was magnificent.
I phoned them and asked how they watered it and was told it was not real. I told them about my hanging REAL tree and that I watered it every other day by drilling a hole in the trunk before hanging it. I just put a chair by the tree and with a thin spout watering container; watered it. They could not believe it. For years, I continued the tradition and the kids just loved it.
Marilyn Bullock
Victoria
A Christmas to remember
I was born in 1921 on the Prairies, the youngest of seven girls, all with straight black hair.
In 1923, a longed-for brother arrived, with fair hair which eventually grew into a mass of creamy platinum curls bouncing over mischievous blue eyes. He had also been born with a cleft palate. When he was old enough he had to endure many operations, but he never lost his sunny disposition. I adored him and we were inseparable.
Our Dad was quite resourceful and was able to provide well for our family of 10. He and my mother owned and operated a furniture store with an attached leather-, shoe- and harness-repair service. He was also an auctioneer and the John Deere representative. Even with all of these resources, as the winter of 1929 approached, cash was becoming a problem.
The fall and winter of 1929 would be the exit of the Roaring Twenties and the entrance of the Dirty Thirties and the Great Depression. The stock market had crashed in October and the economy had been steadily getting worse day by day.
As Christmas approached, many wondered where the Christmas dollars would come from. Our brother, who had recently undergone another operation, had been poring over the same page in the Eatons Christmas catalogue for weeks. I knew what he was looking at, so I spoke to my sisters. We approached mom and dad and told them that we did not need our stockings filled this year and showed them the picture of the toy in the catalogue.
Historically, every Christmas morning dad would line us up in a row, according to age, eyes closed, hands on the shoulder of the person in front and would say: “January, February, March.” On March, we were to march into the living room where we saw for the first time a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. This year it was different. We were stopped in the dining room, asked to keep our eyes closed and to turn around.
We heard strange clicking and winding sounds and, when finally asked to open our eyes, there in front of our brother was the shiniest, sleekest bus with headlights on and horn honking. The interior of the bus was filled with lights, passengers and a driver all rolling along in front of us. Our brother was beside himself with surprise, delight and excitement.
We all realized that watching him experience such joy was the best Christmas present we could have received. It was truly a Christmas to remember, December 1929.
M.O. Bassett
(age 97)
Pool hall Christmas
It was in the mid 1950s. I had six sons. Christmas was coming and I wanted a gift that all the boys could use. I was an only child and was never sure about teenage boys’ wants. My husband was no help at all. When I asked for suggestions, he shrugged and said: “ We never got much for Christmas anyway.”
I was on my own.
In those days, I did so much of the family shopping at Simpsons Sears. I always had one of their catalogues. I decided to look through it for ideas. The most exciting thing happened. I found the perfect gift, a pool table. I went to Simpsons Sears to see it and bought one for delivery. Not only did I want delivery, I wanted it Christmas eve. And not just Christmas eve, but after 8 p.m. when everyone was in bed. I don’t know why, but they agreed. My Christmas shopping was finished for the boys!
On Christmas eve, my husband took the older children to visit his family and then to church. The younger ones were in bed. It was 8 p.m. on the dot and the Sears truck pulled up and three men got out and took the pool table out of the packaging. They put it together and now they had to take it downstairs to the rumpus room. It was a circular staircase. They got stuck three quarters of the way down. They proceeded to take the stair rails off and got the pool table down and set up in all its glory. They then put the railing back together. It was 10:30 by the time the delivery men were finished and these men had families. I could not believe the service. It was beyond the call of duty. I shed a tear when I heard Simpsons Sears is closing.
That pool table became the highlight of our home. It was not quite regulation size, but it looked just like a regular pool table. It had green felt and all the balls and pool cues. Our boys loved it, and so did their friends. I had so many mothers call to see if their sons were over and to make sure they all left at 5:30 for dinner. I began to answer the phone with: “ Hello! ‘O’ Pool Hall.”
Eileen O
Reindeer tracks
My mother raised six girls and one boy on her own, and I am second of the youngest, born in 1952. Mum was a special loving mother.
One Christmas Eve, my youngest sister, Cathy, and I were awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus in our PJs, and supposed to be sleeping. There was a knock on the door and our neighbor came to see mum. She lived a couple of houses up with her husband and boxer dog.
Mum had been baking and the table was full of baked goods for Christmas Day. The scent was warm with Christmas smells as she was an excellent baker and cook. Our neighbor said: “Why are you not sleeping? Santa is just up the street,” which scared us as we didn’t want to be caught awake.
She told us she saw tracks on our roof, so Santa had been by and was waiting for us to fall asleep. That did it! We were in bed and out like a switch.
On Christmas morning, the first thing we did was went outside to look up at the roof and sure enough, it did look like reindeer tracks. Everything was so magical — fresh snow, church bells ringing in the arrival of baby Jesus and the reindeer tracks.
Mary Lou Smith
First Christmas in Chile
In August 1984, we moved to Chile to work at an astronomical observatory. High in the Andes, the clear skies and limitless horizon made star-watching ideal. We lived in a coastal desert town in the north, far from the sophisticated and lively capital of Santiago.
When Christmas arrived — our first outside of Canada — it became clear that we were living on the other side of the equator, far from our snowy English Victorian roots. It was the beginning of the summer solstice and walks along the beach and barbecues were the seasonal tradition on weekends and holidays.
The small community celebrated this time of year as a religious holiday rather than an occasion to fill the local shops with seasonal paraphernalia. No sparkling lights or Christmas trees. Not a Christmas carol to be heard. The yuletide hype was all but invisible.
On Christmas eve day, we were downtown window shopping and strolling around the Plaza de Armas like so many other families did on a beautiful summer afternoon. We were talking about how different the Christmas holidays were to those back in Canada and realized that we missed our families and all of the traditional festivities. It would be Christmas, but without turkey, eggnog and my mother’s plum pudding with hot-rum sauce.
Nostalgic for a moment, we stopped and looked through the window of a small shop that carried everything from car batteries to silk scarves.
And there in the middle of the window, among the frying pans and children’s swimsuits, was a wooden hand carved sculpture of three reindeer with massive antlers, rearing up in festive joy.
We took it home and made it our Christmas centerpiece that year and every year until we departed Chile in 1992. We still put those reindeer on display to remind us to embrace the best of the holidays, give a miss to the hype that holds no seasonal meaning and to never forget how we felt in 1984 as Canadians in our first Christmas in Chile.
Lynda Colbeck Weller
The pink dress
Fifty years ago this December, we celebrated our first Christmas together as husband and wife, 22 and 19 years old. We had little money at that time. As we walked the streets of Moose Jaw, window shopping, I saw a lovely pink sparkly dress for $9.99. That was what I wanted, but never expected to get it. Before Christmas, under the tree, there were three gifts for me. Being at home alone while my husband worked, I opened them all before Christmas. Imagine my utter surprise and delight to find that pink dress was one of my gifts! I wrapped the gifts back up and was just excited on Christmas day. After confessing to my husband well after Christmas, he decided to hide the gifts, only to be brought out on Christmas eve. Many Christmases have come and gone, but this one ALWAYS brings a smile and a touch on my heart.
Grace Shentaler
The Messiah
Singing Handel’s Messiah with the Victoria Symphony is a highlight of my Christmas season.
A performance in Ottawa at the National Arts Centre years ago was memorable because of a cough. My wife bought tickets days before the event. She arrived by car. I was downtown doing something else and as usual lost track of time. I jogged a kilometer through cold dry air to the National Arts Centre as the ushers were closing the doors. The cold air triggered a cough.
We were in the front row, three meters from the soloists. I was barely able to suppress the cough during the arias. Fortunately, the cough went away after 20 minutes.
We moved to Victoria, where the air is less dry, took singing lessons, and joined the Victoria Choral Society. Four months later, we were standing in front of a full house at the Farquhar Autitorium at UVic, performing the Messiah under the baton of Tania Miller. Keeping track of time was still an issue. We are not required to memorize the music, but it sure helps, freeing attention to follow the director who is bringing to life this 300-year-old creation.
George Frederick Handel loved writing Italian opera. The audience in London tired of the genre, so Handel rebranded his output as “oratorios,” building on the tradition of choral singing in England. The tradition lives on in Victoria, where the Messiah has been performed for more than 100 years.
It is a source of wonder that a conductor can lead four soloists, 40 instrumentalists and 140 singers to engage an audience of 1,000. Even after dozens of performances, some of the arias bring tears. The soloist-choral duet, For Unto Us a Child is Born, tells the Christmas story, followed by instrumental jewel, Pifa. The second half is darker, portraying mob rule (He Trusted in God) and a miscarriage of justice. The final Amen chorus is rousing and masterful.
In other cities, the Messiah is performed around Easter. The work stands on its own as a piece of music. It is a tribute to the musicians and their audience and benefactors that Victoria has a tradition which includes singing the Messiah.
Robert Shepherd
tenor chorist with the Victoria Choral Society
Granny the grandstander
This is a story about my Swedish granny, Anna Carlson. Granny’s children, Dagmar, Arol, Victor (mydad) and Eleanor lived near each other. Christmas eve and Christmas day were celebrated between the homes, always ending in our living room around dad’s hand-built stone fireplace. One Christmas evening, my uncle and my dad were teasing Granny about getting old. She was easily able to defend herself against her sons teasing, and reminded them that when they lived in Kenora, Ont., she would stand on her head on the living room carpet on her birthday just to prove she was still young. Of course, they could not resist challenging her. Granny put down the sock she was knitting, and said to my mom: “Minnie, come with me.” They went into the bedroom, and Granny emerged wearing a pair of dad’s trousers. She walked to the centre of the room, and stood on her head. Silence … apprehension … laughter. Of course, we expected her to perform that every Christmas following that night, and later in life the boys made her do it in the corner of the room for safety.
Gail Mackay
Christmas in Cambodia
It was a trip of a lifetime — six weeks visiting Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, a retirement gift to myself.
We were on the last week of our trip, spending seven days on a riverboat on the Mekong River, travelling from Siem Reap, Cambodia back to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam.
We would spend Christmas day in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Our group’s itinerary for Christmas morning was a tour of the Tuol Sleng Prison Genocide Museum followed by a tour of the Killing Fields. Yikes! Sensing our hesitations at breakfast, our guide assured us that following a solemn morning, the rest of the day would be filled with happier celebrations.
Our first stop was the Tuol Sleng Prison, which held more than 12,000 Cambodians and has been left as it was found. It was difficult to hear about the atrocities that happened here, to stand in the prisoner cells and see the victims’ photographs. Only seven prisoners survived and two of them volunteer to tell their tales of survival to visitors. Their stories were nothing short of remarkable. In North America, most of what we know about the Khmer Rouge has come from Hollywood movies. We were shocked to learn that between 1975 and 1979, during the brutal regime of Pol Pot, a quarter of the country’s population, an estimated 1.7 to 2.5 million Cambodians died through execution, starvation or disease.
Our next stop was Choeung Ek, the largest of all the killing fields in Cambodia, 17 kilometers from Phnom Penh. Unsure of what to expect, we were pleasantly surprised to arrive in a beautiful former orchard, filled with green fields and trees with birdsong filling the air. There were raised boardwalks guiding you through the site, protecting the remains of 17,000 Cambodians. There are information stations with artifacts along the way to explain the horrific things that happened during the regime. The centrepiece of the memorial is the 62-metre Buddhist Stupa (shrine) which holds 9,000 skulls from graves exhumed in 1980. The memorial is important to educate tourists and locals and to ensure those who died are not forgotten. It was an extremely emotional and moving place to visit.
It was a very quiet bus ride back to our riverboat as everyone was lost in their own thoughts of what we had seen.
As promised, the rest of Christmas day focused on happier thoughts. A fellow traveller on our boat, a gregarious Australian with a great natural white beard, spent the day visiting the local markets in his red shorts and Santa hat. He returned regaling us with stories of the local children squealing with delight in seeing him and posing for dozens of photos with the Cambodians families, thrilled to have had an encounter with a “real” Santa Claus.
With our boat still tied up at the dock in Phnom Penh, we gathered on the open upper deck as a troupe of children from a local orphanage arrived. Dressed in colourful costumes, they performed traditional Cambodian music and dances for us. Locals, drawn in by the sound of the music, gathered on the pier by our boat to watch the amazing performance.
Meanwhile, our crew prepared our Christmas dinner complete with turkey and trimmings as well as local seafood. As a special treat, our buffet was served out on the open upper deck. The off-duty crew also celebrated, gathering around a guitar player, singing and sharing beers at the front of the boat. With perfect warm weather and clear skies, after dinner our ship was underway again down the Mekong River toward Vietnam, before we would moor again near midnight. Suddenly, the crew started to shoot off fireworks as the boat chugged along, passing under the bridges, all lit up against the night sky filled with stars.
Christmas day in Cambodia left a lasting impression on me.
Now each year I remember how humbled we felt that day. It is too easy to get caught up in the commercialism and forget how fortunate we are here in Canada. Christmas is a perfect time to stop and reflect on how much we have to be grateful for.
Victoria Thomas
Victoria
A Christmas Lesson
I was a Grade 6 student at Willows Elementary School in 1958. Christmas was a time for carol singing, coloured lights and the annual Christmas concert. That year our teacher suggested a special class project to give a Christmas hamper to a family in need.
We applied to the Christmas Bureau and received the profile of a mother with three children; no names, just the children’s ages, gender and clothing sizes. The fund organizers gave us a list of suitable items to put in the hamper; warm clothing, a turkey, Christmas candies, a special present for each child. We solicited local businesses for donations and held cupcake sales at lunchtime to raise money for the children’s gifts.
After the final school assembly before Christmas holidays, on a bitterly cold December afternoon, our teacher drove two of us across the Inner Harbour bridge to deliver the hamper in person.
Mr. Charles parked his Buick on a narrow street in front of a shabby wood-shingled house fronted by a sad patch of grass. This was new territory for Jan and me. We stumbled up sagging stairs, the Christmas box between us, to the front door and knocked.
A boy wearing a short-sleeved striped T-shirt and grey corduroy pants too short to cover his naked ankles opened the door. He eased aside to let us in and pushed the door shut behind us.
The front room seemed large with a lone overstuffed brown chair marooned in the middle of the bare wood floor. Draped in foil icicles and construction paper chains a sparse fir tree tucked itself into a dim corner. The only light crept from the uncovered bay window.
Two little girls in print cotton dresses and outgrown hand-knit sweaters nestled close to their mother. Their feet were bare, small bare feet, on the rough wood floor.
Jan and I set down the hamper and wished them a Merry Christmas. The mother thanked us and we left.
We learned not everyone’s Christmas has a glowing fire, twinkling lights and candy canes on the Christmas tree. But we hoped maybe our red ribboned box holding woolly scarves, a shiny board game and a Christmas turkey would warm one family’s Christmas Day.
Nancy Ballendine
Christmas toy hype and turnip horses
As the Christmas season approaches, I wonder whatever happened to Sing and Snore Ernie?
It seems a long time ago that parents scrambled to department stores in the days before Christmas to duke it out with other parents over a dumpy little doll who could sing and snore. And, before that, didn’t those same parents put a hammer-lock on each other in their struggle for a Tickle Me Elmo? Another Christmas brought guerrilla warfare among parents who ended up battling over a furry little character with a mechanical voice that made one want to commit Furbicide. This all reminds me of a Christmas back in the early 80s when little girls threatened to self-destruct if they didn’t own a Cabbage Patch doll. In early October of that particular year, I asked Doris, the owner of the local hardware store, when they would be stocking some Cabbage Patch dolls. Doris advised the dolls were on “back order,” whatever that meant. I put my name down on her list and cast my future as a parent to the gods of toy land. Two weeks later I received a call. It was Doris.
“They’re here!” she whispered into the receiver. “The Cabbage Patch dolls. You’d better get down here, NOW!”
I left my bread dough in mid-rise and raced down to the store. Doris ushered me into the back room where three rows of Cabbage Patch dolls lined the wall, waiting for adoption. There were several other mothers in the room, most of whom I knew well, but at that moment they all became adversaries. I spotted a girl doll with a bright yellow dress and long brown braids, the exact one my daughter had her heart set on. Snatching it up, I muttered to Doris, “Put it on my account,” and slipped out the door. I felt as if I were a member of some underground movement, spiriting Cabbage Patch dolls out of back rooms and into the bottom of my closet.
There was another year, too, when Wonder Woman was queen of the air waves, spinning like a spider on amphetamines and knocking the daylights out of every criminal-minded organism within her energy field. Naturally, just before Christmas, a doll appeared, whirling and whacking its way across the TV screen like its human prototype. My daughter was sucked in. On Christmas morning, as she tore open the wrapping to reveal Wonder Woman in her skimpy red outfit, she squealed in glee. The next moment, however, her little face turned into a sidehill slump.
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “She doesn’t SPIN!”
Her comment took me back to a Christmas in 1949, when Gene Autry had introduced us to the song, Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. Of course, in the Sears Christmas catalogue, there was a page with an image of their toy Rudolph — cute, brown and furry with his signature red nose. I was six and I wanted one — my very own Rudolph, something soft and cozy to cuddle when I went to sleep at night. Up to that time, I had to be satisfied with my dad’s fur hat, which did double duty as my teddy bear. I let it be known that having Rudolph would make all my dreams come true.
Christmas Eve came at last and, while the snow fell softly on the field outside and the windows frosted over, I murmured to my big sister that, tomorrow, I would have my Rudolph. Sure enough, the next morning, there he was, tucked under the Christmas tree, his red nose all shiny. I dashed to the tree and picked him up.
Wait a minute!
This Rudolph was much smaller than I had expected. His fur was made of some kind of rough material and his legs were stiff and filled with hard wire. He was definitely not soft and cuddly. I knew better than to reveal my disappointment as I knew how my parents had tried to make a special Christmas for the three of us. I simply hugged my stiff and scratchy Rudolph and pretended I was pleased. But, that night Rudolph was assigned to the foot of my bed, while I cuddled, again, my dad’s fur hat.
I often have wondered what my grandfather would have said about all of this hype around Christmas toys. I recall one day he told me that, when he was a boy and had no toys, he had whittled toy horses out of a turnip. He chuckled as he said: “They were all right until they dried up.”
Emma Mae Robbins
Sidney
A special gift
When I was a little girl in the early 1930s, I received a Christmas gift from my parents that became a favourite. It was a doll that my mother had a wig made for from her own hair. She changed her hair style to a very short cut to have enough hair for the doll’s wig. I still remember combing and styling the dolls long, dark hair.
In those days, Christmas was spent at my grandmother’s home in Seattle. She was a wonderful seamstress. Every Christmas there was a new outfit made for my doll. A tunic and blazer, when I started school; party dresses, coat and hat, pajamas and dressing gown — a complete wardrobe.
All these years later, I still have my doll and her wonderful wardrobe that my great grand daughters can play with now.
Janet Flanagan
Victoria
Nature’s Wonder
Many years ago, we lived in north central Saskatchewan, where temperatures can vary from minus-50 in winter to plus-40 in summer; a daunting scene especially when travelling on foot!
Early one bitter evening, shortly before Christmas 1967, we heard a plaintive “meow” outside our front door in Prince Albert. The temperature was minus-40 degrees. On opening the door, we saw a snow-dusted, ice encrusted lump. A cat. We immediately took him inside and promptly named him Zhivago. He stayed and was loved by our family, becoming a cherished part of us.
The next summer with Zhivago lounging on the front same front step, we heard a glad cry : “Sam, Sam, we have found you at last!” There stood an older lady, with tears in her eyes, and Zhivago enveloped in obviously loving arms. A wonderful sight, an emotional time.
This lady, it appeared, had moved away to Moose Jaw from Prince Albert, 220 miles away, earlier that year. Sam had somehow made his way back to Prince Albert, alone in the dead of a prairie winter. Right city, wrong house!
We said: “Thank you Lord, nature’s wonder indeed!”
Stephen Lamb
Victoria
