Christmas at Our House

CHRISTMAS AT OUR HOME

I think our dogs probably enjoyed Christmas as much as we did back in the early 1960s. They seemed to know they had gifts under the tree, and would visit the tree daily to investigate if anything else had arrived during their absence. For Chico, a fox terrier, there was always a king size rawhide beef chew and he knew it was there buried somewhere in among the parcels. On Christmas morning, we would give him the signal to retrieve his beef chew, then off he’d go to rummage around until he located the end of the cardboard on which it was mounted, gently pull it out, then trot into the kitchen with it, his entire body gyrating with gratitude as if pleading with us to now remove the plastic cover so he could get on with the task at hand.

That either of them understood the meaning of the gift exchange is doubtful; however, they managed to grasp the idea that it was somehow a special day and would take considerable interest in each parcel as it was unwrapped, investigating each one and its wrappings as they were handed out. Tails wagged, and eyes sparkled with excitement. They were right into Christmas as much as we were.

Christmas was not shared with the same enthusiasm by Rosita, an aging Chihuahua/Pomeranian mix, but instinctively knew that she should probably be present for the occasion, whatever it all meant. “Rosy”, as we nicknamed her, lived to the incredible age of 17, and during that time had posed for numerous photographs at Christmas. one depicted her, sitting up on her haunches in front of a miniature Christmas tree, and was subsequently incorporated into our Christmas cards that year.

Each year when Christmas comes, I can’t help but think back, even further, to the 1950s when I was growing up on the family farm at Big Island, just north of Demorestville. Those were special years, and sometimes I really wish that I could go back to those days, back to the days when Christmas wasn’t the almost vulgar commercialization that it is today. The days when the Sears Christmas catalogue didn’t arrive while October rains were still falling, and Christmas was measured in terms other than how far in debt we were going to get this year.

My parents seemed determined for us kids to believe Santa Claus actually managed somehow to slide down our narrow chimney, past a volcanic wood fire in the kitchen stove, and leave his presents. So much so, that Dad always left a piece of pie and a glass of milk which, of course, would be gone when I awoke Christmas morning. But then, these are the same parents who, in an effort to convince my brother of Peter Cottontail’s appearance, would actually leave partially chewed carrots and copious amounts of rabbit droppings beside his filled Easter basket.

With no dearth of red cedars on Big Island there was never any question where we would obtain our Christmas tree. It was lovingly selected from our pasture field, much the same way as other Big Island families obtained theirs. We couldn’t understand why other families elsewhere forked over money to procure a tree from a downtown parking lot. Our red cedars even smelled of Christmas. And we didn’t pay around $40 for it either.

Many of the decorations that went on our tree on the farm had once belonged to my grandmother. The wreaths my mother hung in each window – the same ones for the same windows each year – were similarly handed down. Year after year, the same star was used for the top of the tree. It was traditional. Angels were for other people, the same people who used aerosol snow and thick garland for their Christmas trees.

Nobody used artificial trees. Thankfully, they had not been invented yet. The first artificial tree on the market in the late ’60s was nothing short of an ungainly broom handle containing several wire protuberances wrapped in something that looked like shredded aluminum foil. A label warned against the use of lights due to the risk of electrocution. A tree without lights? How silly. The high point of decorating any tree came when the lights were plugged in.

Wrapping presents was another Christmas chore that took me a few years to master. For a few years it seemed that Christmas wrap came in only three colours – red, white or green, and was always purchased at Stedman’s. We called it tissue paper, a name well chosen as it was so thin and translucent one could spit through it. If one actually did succeed in wrapping a present without tearing, the odious task was not complete until the entire parcel was secured with string. This string, usually green in colour, came in rolls and was coated with minute iridescent coloured flecks which left one’s lap coated in glimmering fall-out. Wrapping necessitated the use of the lap since the knees were required to hold the folded ends of the gift in place while the string was coaxed into creating something resembling a gift. A generous quantity of stickers, usually depicting a head and shoulders of Santa, a Christmas tree, or a shot of Santa cracking his whip over Prancer’s behind was slapped on the bland wrapping paper to provide some semblance of elegance. A tag identifying to whom and from whom was attached to the cord. For some reason it never occurred to any of us to use tape to seal the ends of the wrapped gifts. It was always tissue paper and string. The idea of tape as a labour saver coincided with the arrival of Christmas wrap in rolls which came in an infinite variety of colours, patterns and lengths. Rapidly disappearing were the balls of string and I celebrated their demise with each passing year.

Some of our traditions under the tree were somewhat unorthodox. For example, price tags were never removed. What if you were not satisfied with the gift and wished to return it? If the gift was a jacket, all pertinent papers including the receipt could be found tucked in the pocket, just in case it didn’t fit.

Santa Claus or no Santa Claus, my brother, Gordon, and I always hung our stockings. While the gifts under the tree were not opened until after morning milking and after breakfast, it was open season on stockings. These usually contained novelty items, and weird stuff like hammers and pliers and other things no one really wants to find in a Christmas stocking. But there were other things too. Toys, games, small books and candy. In fact, I can’t recall one gift that I ever received that didn’t come as a complete surprise.

Brought up to be frugal, we unwrapped our presents carefully since some of the larger sheets of Christmas wrap could be reused the following year. Whether it was due to the price of the colourful wrap or an unintentional effort on our part to eliminate unnecessary waste is uncertain. I suspect the latter since we seldom wasted anything. This applied especially to the Christmas dinner. Here again we differed from the idealistic Christmas table top scene of a slippery steaming turkey in the middle of the table, both legs outstretched, its rear end sewn up against a rupturing cavity of dressing, the man of the house poised with carving tools in hand. Our turkey was expertly cut down the middle at the butcher shop – one half set aside for Christmas, and the other half frozen and lovingly reserved for the New Year’s feast. The Christmas half was carved right at the kitchen counter and heaped onto a large serving platter. The platter consisted of equal amounts of breast and dark meat, and my favourite – the neck. The dog always ate the windpipe. I went straight for the giblets, scraping off the gizzard and chomping down the heart. The liver was usually chopped up and mixed in with the dressing. No one could make dressing like my mother. It was wetter than most, and to be really enjoyed had to be served up scalding hot. Mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, home made pies – my mother worked hours preparing the meal, putting the turkey in the oven while Dad and I were busy doing the morning milking. We knew when Mother had placed the turkey in the oven as the power would sometimes shut off; the 30 amp service couldn’t handle both the milking machine and the electric oven simultaneously.

Following the meal we would pile on a stack of 78s and listen to Perry Como’s Christmas collection, and somewhere in between “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” little Jimmy Boyd would belt out his classic, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

Back in those days we weren’t ashamed to bark out a hearty “Merry Christmas !” to anyone we met on the street. There was no thought back then to taking Christ out of Christmas as the purveyors of political correctness seem intent on doing today.

Those involved in this disturbing movement of destroying the festive season, obviously sit on the same committee as members who would have us refer to anglers as “fishers” (actually a predatory mammal), and the absolute lamest effort of all, changing the age old spelling of Niger (seed), to a newer and more awkward form of “Nyjer,” because of its resemblance to an uncomplimentary term. Anyone with half a wit and a basic knowledge of Grade 5 grammar knows there is only one way to pronounce the word “Niger”, and that is with a long “I”.

Perhaps we should refuse to buy Christmas cards that dance around the issue by including vague references to Christmas with a feeble “Seasons Greetings.” I could go one step further by vehemently boycotting any store who wishes us “Happy Holidays,” or “Seasons Greetings,” and frequent only those whose display ads in the local papers at this time of the year proudly proclaim “Merry Christmas.”

In many ways it is sad to live next to the farm where I grew up, for it has witnessed a disturbing evolvement too, from a vibrant farm that fed a family of four, to one that has surrendered to a succession of red cedars and ash trees. But memories are strong, and a walk across these same fields brings back a flood of recollections when Christmas was an event that was celebrated with Christmas trees, Christmas cards, Christmas greetings, the singing of Christmas carols, and the Christmas concert at the one room school I attended on Big Island. It was a happy time, and no thought was given to offending newcomers to our country, for Christmas was our custom and we celebrated it with wild abandon. Today, we have gone so far in trying not to offend anyone, that now I am being offended, but the purveyors of political correctness appear to have no problem with that.

They were good times when simple presents were warmly received and appreciated. It was not the almost vulgar commercialism of today, where one Internet site I came upon proudly showed off a $70,000 SUV securely wrapped with Christmas ribbon.

I feel sorry for those today who dare display a nativity scene on their front lawn for they risk the danger of suffering the wrath of the political correctness minority. Is there anywhere in the area where we can still view such a display, even if we are inclined to disguise ourselves while doing it? Why are we being forced into shame by this minority to celebrate what has been a Christian custom for so many centuries? This is our culture and we should be proud of it, not embarrassed by it.

It was a refreshing experience the other morning to reach into our mailbox, and pull out a card from a neighbour who actually wished us a “Merry Christmas.” Such cards are becoming a collector’s item. Even the naturalist’s organization that I have been a member of for more than 40 years, and from which I have routinely purchased my Christmas cards, couldn’t seem to come up with anything more exciting this year than “Season’s Greetings.” As traditional Christmas cards become replaced with those containing stale, unimaginative greetings, an increasing number of us will simply turn our backs on cards, and the political correctness minority will have chalked up yet another victory.

What makes Christmas at our house today so special is taking those few precious moments to reflect on the Christmases of 40 or 50 years ago, and cherishing those memories. They were happy times. As I sit there basking in the memories, all I can do is shake my head with dismay when I come across page in a local catalogue as I did last week , depicting a variety of “snow people.”