Special delivery: North Pole
It’s Christmas Eve. We are watching my loving father get out the Eaton’s catalogue and set it before his children.
My mother and father raised five children on a shoestring budget, but in exchange for that we had their love and warmth. Setting the catalogue down for us, he then passed out pieces of paper and a pencil for each of us.
“OK kids, it’s time to write your letter to Santa.”
“Look very carefully through the catalogue, and just pick five things you would really like Santa to bring.”
Excitement bubbled up for each of us. Oh boy, a letter to Santa for each of us to make those very special requests. Dad told us to take our time and choose carefully because Santa only had so much room in his sack. We would get two of our choices, so we made sure to pick things that would be special.
With so much anticipation, we took turns carefully trying to make our selections, making sure each choice would be something that Santa would try his best to find for us. Lists were written and re-written. Some things crossed out, some things added. Eyes big and full of glee, the lists were made out and each one carefully handwritten with our father helping with spelling and decisions.
At last we were done. But then the question always arose from us: “How will Santa get our letter in time? Its Christmas Eve and what if it’s too late?”
But my dad reassured us that Santa was magic and that Santa had his ways of getting each and every child’s letters on time. My dad said that he had a special delivery service and knew exactly how our letters would arrive in plenty of time for Santa and the elves to make sure each child would be overjoyed and surprised on Christmas morning.
My dad very carefully folded up all of our letters and then led us down to the basement to the big furnace.
“Stand back, kids,” he smiled, “and just watch what Santa and I have in mind.”
He opened the big furnace door and in went our letters. We watched carefully as each letter was licked up by flames. “Come on, let’s go, follow me now.”
Then we all ran outside to look at the chimney.
“Look at the smoke,” said dad. “There go your letters.”
We watched the smoke wisp up into the air, twirling and swirling higher and higher.
“Now,” said dad, “that smoke is going straight to the North Pole and when that smoke arrives there it will magically turn back into your letters and fall right into Santa’s hands. You can be absolutely sure that the smoke will get to the North Pole tonight and that Santa will have your letters on time.”
Our dear dad, he was never wrong and we believed in the magic that was about to happen. We were all so excited to see what Santa would bring and, the next morning when we awoke, there were two gifts for each of us under our tree. We were overjoyed that Santa brought each one of us something special.
Our dad made it so wonderful for us. Even though the gifts were a little different from our choices, we didn’t care or even notice. The magic was there and we believed. We were just so very happy that our dad had a special way of always looking after all of us and that he had this special way of making everything just so perfect.
As years have passed, I have always carried that special story in my heart, and each Christmas I remember the wonderful way love was shown to us by our parents and in our treasured letters to Santa. I think of my dad, how much he loved us and taught us that love for his family and my mom was the greatest gift he could ever have given us.
— Kathy Kossen
That special time of year
It was a cold evening for Victoria. Even more unusual was the light dusting of snow that was floating ever so gently down. In the distance, the sky was surprisingly clear and full of stars.
There I was, huddled around a small fire, trying to keep warm and very conscious of the sights and sounds that made that evening something very special.
While my purpose for being there was to play the role of a Roman soldier in a nativity play, for a few moments I felt as if I had been transported across time and was living a moment from close to 2,000 years ago.
Our family has participated in a live outdoor nativity pageant in Topaz Park since 1987. Over the years, all members of our family have played a variety of roles, on stage and behind the scenes. More recently, we have even had a grandchild play the role of the Baby Jesus.
The initial thinking behind our participation in this production was to reinforce within our family the true meaning of Christmas, the “reason for the season.” As we carried on, we also got to experience the joy of giving, through this special gift to our community.
What has kept us going these 30 years has been the response from the more than 5,000 people who attend each year. We have seen tears, awe and wonder in people’s faces. We have had people, some visiting from out of town, share stories of coming every year, stating that their “Christmas doesn’t really begin until we’ve been to the pageant.” For these same reasons, we have had people plead with us never to stop doing it.
We feel a sense that we have accomplished that original family goal, and the pageant is still very much a family tradition that highlights for us the true meaning of Christmas. We continue to experience the joy of giving to our community, and seeing the awe, not only in the faces of children, but in the adults, as well.
Cherished too, are those moments when people, including us, get to have that personal and memorable glimpse into that special time more than 2,000 years ago.
— Graham Sanderson
North Saanich
The meaning of Christmas
We are all familiar with the saying: “Every cloud has a silver lining.” Through my life, I have experienced troubled times, but usually the event somehow gets changed around and it becomes a happy experience.
The Depression years in the larger Canadian cities and elsewhere during the 1930s affected everyone in one way or another. Some professional people managed to get along with a reduced income while tradesmen in our district were either on Working Men’s Relief or perhaps 10 days a month working for the Canadian Pacific Railway.
My Scottish parents had arrived in Winnipeg during the prosperous 1920s, with my father, a painter, being employed by the CPR. When the Depression years lasted longer than most people expected, the CPR kept a skeleton crew with their longest-serving employees working 10 days in each month while the company maintained three daily shifts.
The newer employees such as my father were laid off.
There was very little help for anyone in Winnipeg until July 1931, when the federal government established Working Men’s Relief. In the meantime, most men and their families were trying to pick up odd jobs as they eked out a livelihood.
Once registered for Working Men’s Relief, my father worked in and around the city, doing whatever was required. In the summer of 1933, he was working at Polo Park.
During this period, my mom and we four youngsters returned to the city after enjoying a 10-day holiday at one of the Fresh Air Camps on Lake Winnipeg that were operated by the United Church or the Salvation Army, for under-privileged families.
My father met us at the CPR station, and I remembered seeing one of his eyes all inflamed and almost shut. It took no time for this itchy skin disease to spread to his entire body. Our family doctor at that time recognized and diagnosed his condition as mustard-gas poisoning that had remained latent in his body from the First World War, until perhaps an insect had bitten him while working, and brought it all out.
With my dad unable to work, our family was taken off Working Men’s Relief and placed on Social Welfare. On Social Welfare, we did not receive the monthly vouchers for groceries, milk and bread as we had on relief, but instead we were supplied basic food items such as dried peas and beans, delivered from the T. Eaton grocery department.
We received a separate voucher for three pints of milk each day and very little bread. My mother received flour instead, and was able to bake wholesome bread, which we enjoyed.
Mother was a very good cook and baker, but her imagination to make changes in our monotonous diet was limited, as we had the same grocery items given each month, take it or leave it. Another difference between the relief and the Social Welfare was that we had no clothing or shoe allowances.
There was absolutely no availability to have any money.
During the hot dry summers, with temperatures from 90 to 118 degrees F, my dad’s face was just one large open sore that was usually covered with Calamine lotion to allay the itch. My mother had to walk three miles to a certain downtown drug store for a small bottle of the lotion, although we had two drug stores close at hand.
One application of Calamine on my dad’s face and the bottle was empty.
My father was an Imperial veteran, having fought at Gallipoli and the Dardanelles, but as his skin was clear when he was discharged in 1919, he never received any pension from the British War Office.
We received no hamper during the Christmas season of 1935. Our name was not on any list, because of the late transfer of our family from relief to Social Welfare.
During this Christmas, my brothers and sister, as well as myself, hung up our stocking on the back of a chair, expecting that there would be something in it on Christmas morning. There was nothing!
My older brother had a piece of wood in his stocking to remind him that he had not done his chore of bringing in the wood for the kitchen stove. My mother had placed it there so we would all have a good laugh.
Shortly after breakfast, the neighbor’s four kids came to our door, to see what we had received for Christmas. Mom invited them in and gave them some homemade bread covered with some of her jam, along with some cocoa. How they relished this treat. They only had store-bought bread in their home.
At school, the Gray kids were in the same classes as ourselves. They felt bad that we had not received anything, and soon left.
About 15 minutes later, the four kids were back at our door, each of them bearing a gift. They told us that when they went home and told their mother about our plight, their mother asked each one of them to pick out one of their own gifts, and take it to our home, and give it to us.
What beautiful thoughts we all had that Christmas morning! I always remembered what Eleanor Gray gave me that day. It was a celluloid doll on a swing; when you pressed the two fragile metal “ropes,” the doll did a somersault.
The Gray family were on relief, but that Christmas their mother had taught her children a valuable lesson on sharing and caring.
— Margaret Russell
Happiness in Saskatchewan
It was Christmas Day and I was eight years old. I lived in a small town in Saskatchewan and it was the middle of the Depression. Our neighbours’ boys played hockey, and when the youngest grew out of his skates, he gave them to me.
My dad flooded the backyard for ice and I learned to skate by pushing a kitchen chair on the ice. The gift I wanted more than anything was a 50-cent skating ticket that allowed me to skate twice a week at our local indoor skating rink for the winter season.
We opened our stockings before Mum and Dad got up. I got a pair of socks Mum had knit, some hard candies and an orange.
After breakfast I opened my present. I tore the paper off — I held my breath. A sweater Mum had knit and an envelope — a skating ticket. I couldn’t believe it.
After lunch, my brother and I bundled up and walked to the town hall, as all children under the age of 10 were given a bag of candies. Supper was a roasted chicken, vegetables and a sweet pudding and hard sauce.
For a treat, Mum made double fudge.
I went to bed the happiest most contented child in Saskatchewan.
— Noreen Stewart
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 of and sometimes the participation in a tradition that has been part of Christmas in Victoria for the past 30 years.
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 babe. 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
Help from Hudson’s Bay
The year, I believe, was 1948 or 1949. My mom, Hilda Renee, had been hired by the Hudson’s Bay Co. and had been there three weeks.
My dad had been in a terrible work accident. It was now the day before Christmas and they were waiting for a compensation cheque. My mom said: “Don,
come in at 3 p.m. when I get my coffee break to let me know if you get your cheque, as we have nothing for the kids for Christmas.” They had four kids.
Dad arrived at 3 p.m. and mom could tell by his face — no cheque. When dad sat down, mom was crying softly and said: “What are we going to do? We have nothing for the kids for Christmas.”
A woman was sitting at another table and overheard my mom. She went upstairs to the office and told the other staff members.
It was now 5 p.m., mom was putting on her coat, and one the employees in the cafeteria said to her: “Hilda, can I see you for a moment?” Mom walked around the partition, and there were the managers and staff from the different departments with a tree, turkey and all the trimmings for a Christmas dinner, plus presents for all of us kids.
They had looked through mom’s application for employment to get the information they needed.
Someone offered to drive mom home, as she took the bus to Esquimalt and we lived in Macaulay Camp.
I have told this to my kids and grandkids, to step in if they see someone in need and can help.
If that woman who overheard my mom had done nothing, what a different Christmas story that would have been for four very young kids.
— Jacqueline Westwood
Victoria
Christmas in Singapore
In the early 1960s, my husband was serving on the submarines at the British base in Singapore. I realized that many of the young men who came to our house were half the way around the world from their families in the U.K., and it was not easy for them to be so far away from their families during the holidays.
Some of them were not even in their 20s. A letter might take two weeks to arrive, so I thought they were very lonely, although they tried to be brave and brush it off.
Our first Christmas there, my husband suggested that we invite as many young British servicemen as our house would hold to spend the holidays with us. We were delighted when six accepted the invitation.
As they shyly entered the house, I greeted them and told them to make themselves at home and help themselves to the food or refreshments whenever they wanted and above all to enjoy their stay.
We couldn’t find a Christmas tree, so a three-foot imitation tree was decorated with tiny Chinese lanterns and tinsel and placed on a coffee table near the patio door. This wasn’t a great location because the monsoon wind blew it over a few times, and our cat chased a house lizard up the tree and also liked to bat at the dangling decorations, but the tree managed to last until New Year’s.
Christmas dinner was interesting because our traditional Canadian food was not familiar to them. It was fairly soon after the Second World War, so they weren’t exposed to TV programs featuring North American dishes.
Jellied salads were popular at the time, but no one touched it because they thought it was a dessert. They hesitated about the cranberry sauce that my mother mailed to me until they noticed that I was putting it on my turkey and then they asked me to “pass the jam.”
They weren’t at all sure about the carrot pudding with the hard sauce, or the sweet potato pie.
In the morning, I inquired whether they wanted juice or grapefruit and how they wanted their eggs. One boy softly replied: “Grapefruit … just cut it in half, please … by itself.” This made me wonder what he imagined I was going to do with it if I had my way with it.
They were invited to help themselves to the food in the fridge whenever they wanted a snack. We had a stray kitten at the time, so I thought it was rather endearing when I noticed a big Marine cuddling the kitten under his shirt.
A few days later, when the turkey was reduced to bones, he confessed that he had found the kitten wrapped around the turkey in the fridge and he had been trying to warm it up under his shirt but he hadn’t said anything about it because he didn’t want to “put anyone off the turkey.”
I can’t remember a more wonderful Christmas. The lads brought such gaiety and fun to us that year when we were also very far from our own home in Canada. They told stories, played music, sang, played games and talked of home. We felt honoured to have them as our guests.
— Lucille Ross
Hard work and celebration
There is no more sobering reminder of the passing of time than when a child says: “Tell me what Christmas was like when you were a little girl.”
It has been said that time has no distance where the senses are concerned, and time, it seems, has the power to purée all our childhood memories into one. I don’t remember ever consciously filing anything away in my memory, telling myself that this is important. And yet it is all there in spite of me, in a form more vivid than the original.
What was Christmas like more than six decades ago? Darker, certainly. Street lamps were not as bright as they are now. Generally, colder, too. Most English houses had no central heating. Our coal fires looked pleasant, but most of the heat went up the chimney!
Christmas was a culmination of what seemed like months of extra work for wives and mothers. Bought cakes and puddings were frowned upon. I was about three or four when I was first allowed to watch the plum-pudding ritual. I sampled and stirred as my mother cut pale green citron into ever smaller pieces. She carved crystallized orange and lemon pieces into sparkling shapes and added the exotic spices of mace, nutmeg and cinnamon into the heady mix. It was then boiled in the “copper,” where our weekly wash was done.
Rich cakes were made months before and kept in tins, ready for a covering of marzipan and icing. Fridges were unknown, so most perishable food had to be bought within a day or two of Dec. 25. Rationing was still in effect, so we were lucky to have even a chicken for our festive dinner.
Dad would bring home the bird from the butcher on Christmas Eve. It was no ready-plucked-and-trussed bird, either. The kitchen would be filled with feathers! A few would drift into the living room as mum and I put the final touches on the small tree that always graced the piano.
Christmas Day was an exciting whirl of opening stockings, gastronomic delights, snapping crackers, the wearing of rakish paper crowns and the pungent aroma of the once-a-year cigar dad always smoked. We listened to the radio as the Queen (who always sounded like my school headmistress) exhorted us to face the coming year with renewed vigour!
There are things about the season that never change. The treasured symbols and rituals peculiar to every family. Giving thanks that once again we are all together to celebrate another Christmas.
— Jayne Green
Nanaimo
Christmas Stars
“Have you seen the stars?” my father asked. “They’re so clear and bright, suspended in the night sky. Amazing, just like the ones we used to see on the prairies, a true winter celebration.”
Dad was 86 that winter and living in a long-term care facility. His mind wasn’t always clear, but he was still very observant. Every day when we saw him, he would comment on the beauty of the stars in the Christmas sky.
I asked if he had seen them from his window. He said no, and insisted he crossed the street in front of the Beverly Centre every night to get the best view.
Dad walked with increasing difficulty and used a walker. I found it hard to believe that he could navigate and cross the busy street. On the other hand, I had never known my father to make up stories or even stretch the truth.
This all remained a mystery to us until Christmas Eve when my husband and I walked Dad back to his room after a family gathering. As we reached his room, his face lit up and he said: “Do you see them, aren’t they beautiful?” Across the hall from his room was the dining room and outside the dining room window was a tree with white lights glowing among the branches.
Later, the staff told us that every night my father would leave his room, walk through the dining room and “across the street,” to gaze the stars, encouraging any and all to share in his pleasure.
They were only clear lights on a spruce tree, but to my father on his very last Christmas with us, they were the pure bright lights of heaven shining down. I think of my dad whenever I see white lights on a tree. I see his wonderful smile and twinkly blue eyes. I feel him looking down at us with love and I miss him.
— Jane Krieger
Santa’s bottom in the snow
In 1945, a month or two before Christmas, my mother was stricken with tuberculosis and was sent to a sanitarium. She left behind four young children. A kind uncle and aunt, who lived in a small town on the north shore of Lake Superior, took us in. Their sacrifice was significant.
Uncle John was just back from the Second World War, a veteran of the Battle of the Atlantic. He and my Aunt Mona were re-establishing their own lives.
In addition to the sorrow we felt at being separated from our mom, my youngest sister was afraid that Santa Claus would not be able to find us on Christmas Eve. How would he know that we were not still in Winnipeg?
Christmas Day dawned with toys and gifts under the tree and the table laden with food and favours. But the most spectacular event was yet to come.
Uncle John’s brother burst through the kitchen door. “Come outside,” he cried. “Quick!”
We bundled into our winter clothing and trooped through the yard to the front of the house.
“Look!” He pointed to the roof. High above us was a set of sleigh tracks and the footprints of eight prancing reindeer. But, most exciting of all, there in the snow was the unmistakable imprint of a very broad bottom.
“Santa must have slipped when he got out of the sleigh,” he said. My siblings’ eyes were as round as saucers. All day long the neighbourhood children gathered to share the wonder.
Uncle John was a portly man and it was the family tradition to celebrate Christmas in high spirits. To this day, I marvel at the imagination and effort it took to set up that spectacle on a starry winter night: a miracle that helped soften the sadness of four displaced children.
— Rosalee van Stelten
Victoria
Connected to Christmas
As I approach my 63rd Christmas, memories of Christmases past are much like visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads, as in the story ’Twas the Night Before Christmas.
One life-changing Christmas for me was at the age of nine, when my maternal grandmother bought a horse from a neighbour down the road. Not just any old horse, but a beautiful black, loving friend. My grandmother paid $40 for that horse, which was her mortgage payment for the house where many of my family lived.
I have always had an innate spiritual connectedness to nature, which provided the bridge for my love of animals, especially horses. I believe this connectedness is part of my heredity from my birth father and our ancestors. However, the understanding of my grandmother without ever acknowledging the small part of my paternal heredity recognized my connectedness. For me now looking back, my grandmother’s sacrifice, that $40 was priceless.
— Colleen Brown
Reindeer hoofprints
When I was five years old, I interviewed my parents about Santa Claus. Christmas was a week away. “I don’t worry so much about Santa,” I said, “but the reindeer will be so tired after all that flying.” My brother (who was eight and knew everything there was to know) said: “Santa and the reindeer won’t be coming here because the chimney is too small.” I was devastated, but fortunately our dad intervened. “I guarantee that Santa and the reindeer will be here on Christmas Eve,” he said. “You may not see them, but you will know they have not forgotten you two.”
I took comfort in Dad’s promise and decided that I would stay awake the entire night on Christmas Eve no matter how hard it would be. During the next few days, I ate all the chocolates in my Christmas advent calendar and helped my mother make special cookies for Santa. Finally, Christmas Eve arrived and my brother and I were put to bed. All the anticipation had made us both very tired and we slept until the sun was rising. Disaster. We thought we had missed
Santa and the reindeer! I broke into tears and my brother looked shocked as we burst into our parent’s bedroom.
Mother said: “I’m sure that Santa has been here. I thought that I heard him a little while ago. Let’s go and see what he and the reindeer found you.” Our house had a large glass veranda at the front and when Dad threw open the interior door and turned on the light, the entire space was a picture. Our Christmas stockings were hanging from hooks near the window and other gifts were carefully arranged. The floor was covered with hay for reindeer food.
Dozens of carrots had been chomped on by the reindeer and Santa’s hot chocolate was steaming just a little. “Look,” said dad, “the reindeer have left all their footprints.” There was a piece of paper which had been put under Santa’s cup. It said: “Thank you for being such good children and for thinking of others besides yourselves. We are sorry about the hoof marks we’ve made on the floor.” All my brother could say was “Wow! I got Santa’s autograph.” I couldn’t say anything because it was so exciting. Mother and dad seemed unusually tired, but we were all very happy.
— Glenys Parry Blackadder
Keeping me humble
This is a Christmas story unlike any of my treasured childhood memories. There were two of the right ingredients that should have made for a happy Christmas — a special happy event and a carefully chosen gift, but that is not how things turned out.
I am, under normal circumstances, a fairly well-organized person, but there was one Christmas in particular when the best-laid plans of even a minister’s wife went awry. Even thinking about it now, after all those years, there is a lingering feeling of embarrassment. Not just for myself, but for the humiliation to which I subjected my husband, Ray, at the time.
It was two days before Christmas. The house was a mess. The phone rang incessantly. There were presents to wrap. A nightgown to finish for Polly. Last-minute shopping for stocking-stuffers for our five children. Baking to be done. Company coming. And then there was the traditional Christmas Eve service, which would reduce my working hours to a precious few.
You might well ask where my husband, the father of those five children, was. Well, that is where the trouble began. He was at the church where every minister is to be found two days before Christmas.
The phone rang, as it always did, just when I was in the midst of something that demanded my immediate attention. It rang once, twice, three times and was into the fourth ring when, in exasperation, I picked it up.
There was only one man who greeted me with a “hello, dear.” It was unusual for Ray to call home, especially on that morning when he knew how busy I was. My defences went up instantly. This call was not normal. Instinct warned me that this was not going to be anything I wanted to hear.
In tones that were intended to placate and prepare me, he asked: “How would you feel about a wedding Christmas day?” That’s all it took. For the first time in our entire marriage, I yelled at my husband.
“A WEDDING CHRISTMAS DAY! WHAT IDIOT WOULD ASK YOU TO TAKE A WEDDING ON CHRISTMAS DAY?”
“Do you have any idea how busy I am? Do you have even the vaguest comprehension of how much work there is still to do around here?”
“I was well into the third “do you … ” when Ray was finally able to interrupt my tirade.
“I have a young couple here in he office who have asked me to take their wedding ceremony on Christmas Day. I thought I should check with you first.
At this point I knew exactly what was happening there in that office. Ray would be doing everything humanly possible to muffle the sound coming out of his phone, pressing the receiver tightly to his ear, but unable to block out my voice. Even worse. I knew that young couple had heard every word.
Confirmation of this awful embarrassing truth came Christmas Day, after the wedding, when Ray handed me a gift-wrapped parcel from the young couple. When I opened it, I realized with a sinking certainty that they had, in fact, heard every loud word I had uttered. By chance, or good fortune, they had found the perfect gift for the loud-mouthed minister’s wife — a lovely tin of English biscuits, on the lid of which was inscribed “Bless This House.”
However, on every side of the tin were words intended for no one else but me.
“Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep”
“The noblest mind the best contentment has”
“I have oft heard defended, little said is soonest mended”
And the final gem:
“Be to her virtues very kind. Be to her faults a little blind”
Thankfully, I never met that young couple. However, their gift was priceless.
It sits on a bookshelf in our den and over the years it has kept me humble.
— Patricia Brandon
Comox
Grandmother’s soufflé
My mother’s family were Americans living on Capital Hill in Seattle when I was born. My father’s family had been in Victoria since the late 1850s. In the 1930s, Christmas day was not a big day of celebrating for my Victoria relatives, so my mother, dad and I always traveled on the CPR boat from Victoria where we lived to Seattle to celebrate the season. Christmas dinner was a feast of turkey, tortiere (pork pie) and all the extras — plus a special dessert. There were usually
12 people for dinner. If my widowed grandmother ever heard of someone suddenly alone, they would be included with the family at dinner. One year, it was an elderly gentleman who was known to be a teetotaler. He was invited to Christmas dinner and no one referred to grandmother’s special rum soufflé dessert.
The guest ate it quickly and then declared: “That was the most delicious dessert I have ever eaten, but I couldn’t recognize the flavour!” My parents laughed about this for many years after, although at the time, they never revealed to the guest what the secret ingredient was in grandmother’s soufflé. The recipe has been handed down and is still made at Christmas time for our family.
— Janet Flanagan
Christmas 1952
Ron and I — newly arrived immigrants from war-torn London with our two small children and no money, were not looking forward to a hard-luck Christmas with no turkey.
The local cricket club had snapped up this “New Brit” and got him involved in selling tickets for their Christmas raffle. The most tickets sold by a member would win a turkey. We worked hard knocking on doors and calling on neighbours. The night of the draw — excitement! We had won the coveted bird — by a single ticket.
Sixty four years later, we fondly remember those early days.
— Mrs. G.E. Wharton
Victoria
