Continued

Now, one of the reasons Lowcandle was small was that a lot of strong, strapping sons had marched off to war from its houses and the farms all around. Twice. Not all that many of them had come back, and some of those that did were missing arms or legs or eyes, and had to do something else besides farming. Like old Bert Hamilton, who was missing his left foot and walked with a wooden crutch. He’d sold insurance, but by the time I was old enough to know his name, he was retired, and all that was left of his business was the fading sign over the side door of the old inn downtown that had been his office, that was too high up for him to take down. It sported a pretty good painting of his crutch, and above it his business motto: “You never know when you’ll need a leg up!”

The little cabin down on Creek Lane was Bert’s house, where he lived alone and spent his nights. His days were spent wheezing his way down to the Legion, sitting there until late with his fellow vets playing cards and checkers and smoking up a storm—they let you smoke indoors, in those days—and then wheezing his way home again. Aside from the old guys at the Legion, I thought for a long time that I was the only one in the village who knew how Bert whiled away his nights and Sundays, when the Legion was closed.

When he wasn’t eating or snoring, he was sitting with a set of sharp knives, whittling toys out of wood. Toys like tops and blocks and dolls and cars and airplanes. Little pigs and bigger locomotives—in fact, just about everything except tanks and soldiers.

Bert Hamilton made toys. Hundreds of toys. Every year. Until he took some time off, early in December, to drag together that year’s big woodpile on his front lawn.

Early, early every Christmas morning he’d light it, and the kids would
come running. From all over the village, from farms clear down the far end of the valley, kids hurried to Creek Lane, even a few who were a little older than Bert had been when he’d gone marching off to war, who ended up standing there looking a little sheepish.

And Bert would give them all a big dip from his cauldron of sweet, hot cider—everyone sipped from the same dirty old ladle, no throwaway cups in those days—and wave them to the table in his front room, and tell them to pick a toy from what Santa had left.

Oh, yes. Bert never told anyone he made any toys, and neither did any of the grownups in the valley. If I hadn’t been out sneaking around one night looking for robbers, and seen a sliver of Bert’s room with the lamp over the workbench, when he stepped outside to tap out his pipe, I wouldn’t have known either. It was always Santa who brought those toys.

Santa always came to Bert Hamilton, some of the dads said, because he was right on the edge of the village where the reindeer had space to land, and lit the bonfire to guide them down—and because he slept so soundly he never woke up and saw Santa. And because Santa liked hot cider.

This went on for years, until I was getting a bit old to take a toy from the bench. I still liked watching the kids squeal and laugh and run around the village waving their toys every year, though, and I used to go outside and stand where I could watch the smoke from the bonfire rise up into the cold, clear sky, and smell it. That smoke meant Christmas was here, for sure.

That all went on for a few more years, with old Bert not getting any younger, until the year came when he took sick, not long after Christmas, right in the icy heart of the worst of winter, and stopped trudging down to the Legion.

Old Agatha Jenkins—who never missed a chance to poke her nose inside a house where she’d ordinarily not be welcome—went to check on him, and came back and told Bertha Finkbeiner next door that he was “very poorly, very poorly indeed.” That set the women of Lowcandle to trundling down to the end of the village in regular shifts, to check on old Bert and “take him a little something,” usually in the soup line.

Bert Hamilton hated soup, but he must have been really sick, because he thanked them for it and accepted the spoonfuls of it and never shooed any of them away. They soon started saying he never got out of bed, and “wasn’t long for this world.” Then they started right in planning his funeral—who would do the flowers and who would sing a solo and all of that; the sort of talk that made the men of Lowcandle look disgusted and go out to do some chore or other they’d just thought of, and gather outside muttering things like, “How’s about we lay in some wood for old Bert, to see him through the winter? The women have planned him right into his grave already!”

And so they had. Agatha and Bertha were deep in the world of floral arrangements and who would try to contact Bert Hamilton’s cousin, who was said by some to have moved to Montreal, though others insisted she’d “gone out west,” maybe as far as Sarnia. Their curiosity over what the inside of Bert’s little cabin looked like long since satisfied—“Squalor is squalor,” was all Agatha would say, or rather sniff—they had long since delegated Bert’s daily visits to younger women farther down the pecking order among the church ladies. One of those women was Janice Walker, and as her youngest, Alec, was at home with her—we had no kindergarten in those days, nor school buses, either; back then, for some strange reason, school boards were supposed to be all about what was taught, not operating transportation companies and giving our kids lengthy free tours of most of the backroads of Ontario twice a day—she took him with her when she went to visit old Bert.

And Alec, too young to know any better, too young to know when an old man was dying, asked Bert what would happen at Christmas, if he didn’t light the fire. His mother shushed him, but the words were out.

And Bert Hamilton smiled from his bed and told Alec firmly, “Santa brings the toys. Santa will come, whether I’m here or not. Just you wait and see.”

Well, they did get old Bert into his grave, not much more than a week after that—they never did find the cousin, but everyone agreed Agatha’s flowers were magnificent and Bertha’s niece did a good job on “Abide With Me”—but Alec told his friends what Bert had said, and . . . well, news has a way of spreading in Lowcandle.

A lot of parents told their kids not to expect anything next Christmas but an empty cabin down by the bridge, with no bonfire, that the toys really came from Bert Hamilton and not Santa, but the kids knew better.

There were grownups who’d lie to you, and there were grownups who wouldn’t.
And old Bert had been pretty clear. “Santa brings the toys. Santa will come, whether I’m here or not. Just you wait and see.”

Those words got said defiantly back to a lot of moms and dads that year, usually with the addendum “old Ber—er, Mr. Hamilton said so.”

Now Tom Fenner, who owned the gas station, and Bob Ogletree, who owned the hardware store, had this same talk with their sons about not expecting toys, but their sons stood just as firm as they were, and insisted there would be a bonfire, and there would be toys.

So Mr. Fenner and Mr. Ogletree went and had a talk with Reverend Wilkins at the church, to see if perhaps if everyone got together and bought just one toy each, and the church elders built a bonfire, the children would get what they were hoping for—but the minister wasn’t having any of that. Christmas, he told them, was about God and celebrating the coming of Jesus, not presents.

Now, the only place in Lowcandle where you could buy a drink, then and now, was the Legion, and Mr. Fenner and Mr. Ogletree fetched up there a little later to have a beer and grumble a bit. Neither of them thought putting a toy into a young and eager hand was the Devil’s work, nor any sort of creeping, insidious evil. Reverend Wilkins seemed to like creeping, insidious evils; he saw them everywhere.

Now I went to the Legion not just because I could buy a beer, but because I could hear good stories there, and find out what was going on in the village just as quickly as if I’d been Agatha’s friend—which I wasn’t—or one of the church ladies, which I also wasn’t. And even though the only wars I’d fought in were conducted in the schoolyard at recess, I was welcome. So I was sitting there that night, just after Fenner and Ogletree had told all the vets what Reverend Wilkins had said to them—and I was still sitting there, a minute or two of old men shaking their heads and rumbling later, when Reverend Wilkins himself walked in.

Now, the minister didn’t visit the Legion to drink beer. Or anything stronger. He went to the Legion to chide the vets for not coming to church, and for spending their days sitting there drinking beer. No catching flies with honey for him.

But this time, before he could even get started, old Jimmy Longford swung his wheelchair away from the pool table and growled out, “What’s all this about no gifts for the little ones at Christmas, hey?”
Reverend Wilkins didn’t take it well.

“Christmas is not about a fat man in a red suit handing out presents!” he snapped. “It’s a holy time, when we celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus!”

“To some,” one of the vets at the euchre table said.

“If it’s all about Jesus being born in a manger,” another piped up, “why can’t we all just head out to the barn and sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ then?”

“You mock when you should tremble!” the minister said, and sure enough, he was trembling. He was red-faced, too, so angry he was starting to stammer and spit as he glared around at all the vets and commenced to waggle his finger. “You should come to church, not hang about this—this old boys’ club!”

“Can’t smoke in church,” another of the old guys told him. “And it’s not a club. It’s our place, that we share with our friends who never made it back home, just like the church is your place. We don’t need fancy suits and a special building to pray.”

“I know,” the Reverend came back at him. “I’ve heard you. But yelling ‘Jesus Christ’ when you stub your toe or drop something or hit your thumb with a hammer doesn’t count, gentlemen. Your immortal souls are in peril.”

“Huh,” said one of the vets. “Well, when we went overseas to fight for King and Country, our mortal bodies were in peril—and I didn’t see Father, Son, nor Holy Ghost taking much interest in us then. No toys for the kiddos? Where’s your Christian charity, Reverend?”

“Charity is visiting those in need, seeing that widows have a roof over their heads and those who stray receive proper guidance,” the minister almost shouted. “It is not . . . ‘presents.’”

“Maybe not, but I sure wanted presents,” old Jimmy growled. “And it was presents that made my nephews smile. That, and chocolate cake. Not singing carols and listening to three kings following a star.”

“Well, perhaps your nephews weren’t raised to have the right values,” Reverend Wilkins told him back, as lofty and sneering as the worst school teachers on their bad days. Then he snapped “Good evening” as if he wanted them to have anything but, and turned and strode out.

Leaving the room full of old men wearing frowns and muttering things like, “There’re going to be a lot of long faces around this village come next Christmas.”

It was Tom Fenner who cleared his throat and said, “Uh, y’know, I used to help my dad carve decoys. Making a few toys can’t be that hard, if we get started right away.”

And it was Bob Ogletree who said, “I’m no good with my hands, but I can chip in lots of paint, and tools. Nails and screws, too.”

By then the vets were crowding around them both, looking interested—heck,
looking eager. Too eager, even, for anyone to rib Bob Ogletree one more time for running a hardware store but not being any good at working with his hands.

“Let’s do this,” one of them said, fierce-like.

“We’ll show him ‘Christian charity,’” another snorted.

Which was when Jimmy Longford whirled his wheelchair around to face me, and said, “Now listen, young Jack. This has got to be kept secret. One word out of you, and all Lowcandle will know, and the women will start on us, and—”

“And it’ll be all over,” Tom Fenner said mournfully. They were all nodding and muttering agreement.

“I swear,” I told them, just as firm as I could say it. “I want that bonfire, this Christmas and every Christmas!”

“Good. Settled,” said old Jimmy, turning back to the ring of men around Fenner and Ogletree. “So who can make what?”

“Dolls and wooden wagons,” another of the vets said. “Keep it simple and make a lot. If we get enough, we can make more little men and women and suchlike to put in them, so’s to make everything better. Charlie, we’re going to need your drill.”

“Take it. Run me back tonight in Frank’s truck, and bring the drill back here. We’ll work in the back, and put things in the furnace room to dry. No other place is safe from the women.”

“Heh. Start smoking your pipe again, Charlie, and we can keep them away from anywhere you walk!”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves . . .”

“So he does, so help yourselves to the tools you need, and let’s get going!”

And that was how Old Bert’s toymakers got started.

Well, the months passed, and the vets worked like beavers, and I did, too. At first the toys were pretty crude, with most of the old men being pretty rusty, and getting tired and shaky all too fast, but we all pitched in and learned from each other, and someone found some plans in some old magazines . . . and the production line started to pick up.

Simple carts and whittled horses at first, but then planes and cars and people to go in the carts and on the horses, with arms and legs that moved. Dolls, too, and little mazes for marbles . . . and old marbles to go through those mazes.

Until the night—it was late September by then—when old Jimmy said he reckoned we had four toys now for every kid he’d heard of in the valley, and we could slow down at bit.

“Good,” Charlie told him. “We’re none of us getting any younger. We’ll be needing a bonfire, out at Bert’s place—but don’t build it yet. Collect all the wood, somewhere secret, so we can get it out there late, late Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll do that,” I volunteered. “I can go out cutting and not have it be noticed the way it would if any of you guy—gentlemen did.”

“Good, good. Tell Frank when you’ve got a truckload, and take him to wherever it is, and we’ll haul it to the back of Henderson’s junkyard.”
So we did that.

The days seemed to go faster and faster that year, and Christmas came up at us like a puck in the face.

And Christmas morning, as if by magic, the smoke was rising from a bonfire on old Bert’s front lawn, up the little lane at the end of the village, and the children came running.

I saw them, and so did most of the vets. They’d broken into Bert’s place two nights earlier and had to fix the door, afterwards, and they didn’t intend to miss a minute of seeing those smiles. And someone had to make the cider.

Which was different than Bert’s, of course, but hot and sweet just the same. Nor did they miss those smiles, as the kids came, and then their parents, and most of the grownups in Lowcandle, from Tom Fenner and Bob Ogletree to Agatha Jenkins and Bertha Finkbeiner. They all stood around in Bert’s yard, watching the kids laugh and run and play, and staring at all the toys left on the bench, and then they stood around the bonfire and chattered, as grownups do.

When no one came to the Christmas Day service, Reverend Wilkins came looking for everyone.

Which brought him to old Bert’s place, where everyone was.

“Welcome!” Bob Ogletree called out to him, waving the cider ladle. “Cider, Reverend? Or a toy?”

Reverend Wilkins did not take that well.

He stood there, eyeing all the grownups standing around—they were watching and listening to him, now—and getting redder and redder.
Then he glared at Bob Ogletree and snapped, “You did this, didn’t you?”
Ogletree tried to look innocent, but it’s hard to do that when you’re struggling not to laugh. “Did what?”

The minister waved his hand around old Bert’s trampled yard. “All these toys!”

Mr. Ogletree shook his head, and took old Bert’s battered Bible out of his coat pocket and held it to his chest. “Oh, no!” he replied firmly. “Flat truth, Reverend: as God is my witness, I haven’t made a single toy. Not one.”

“Oh? So just where did they all come from, then?”

And Bob Ogletree smiled at him and said, “Have some faith, Reverend. Santa came, just like old Bert said he would. And he’ll come again next year. Just you wait and see.”

continued...


“Well,” I began cautiously, “he’d probably love to take part. He likes having a job to do. But maybe you’d better meet him before we come to a final decision.”

Ron’s voice lightened several degrees. I realised he had been anxious.

“Oh yes! I’d love to. We’ll be doing the play several times and, of course, we’d want him to take part in the final rehearsals as well. He would need to be friendly and obedient. But I hear very good things about him.”

What have I got into? I thought. Who’s going to walk Edward into town and back, besides looking after him while he’s there? But nothing could stop Ron now. An interview was quickly set up and, when I went out to feed the chickens, I told Edward all about his possible future. A casting call.

What excitement I felt on his behalf! I rubbed his woolly head and gave him a carrot. He was pleased with the attention and took a run around the field’s perimeter before returning to lay his head on my shoulder and huff gently in my ear to show his approval.

Ron arrived promptly that afternoon. He was bundled up against the snow, his face rosy and his eyes bright from cold. We went straight to the field, where Ron, on my advice, approached Edward slowly holding out some pieces of apple. He seemed to have a natural affinity with animals, speaking to Edward quietly. They soon made friends and I was relieved when he said he would collect Edward himself and bring him home each time he was needed. Once back in the house, I saw that Ron was younger than I’d first supposed, tall, fair and very thin when he discarded his puffy coat.

Over a cup of tea, he told me a little about himself. “I’ve worked in theatre, mostly with children, ever since I graduated seven years ago.”
Ron rubbed his nose and gave a wry smile. “Though it’s not very lucrative, I’ve been lucky to have a job most of the time. I came down here because a friend asked me to do a couple of plays with the kids.”

“My daughter, Megan’s taking theatre arts at College this year.” I replied. “Perhaps you’ll meet over the holiday.”

On several days in the next couple of weeks Edward happily donned his seldom used harness and saddle and accompanied Ron to the bright lights of a theatrical life. I heard that he behaved impeccably and had become a prime favourite with everyone involved with the production. Ron’s idea was that Edward, Mary and Joseph would make their way to Bethlehem through the streets of the town gathering members of the audience on the way to the church where they were performing. They had given a couple of shows in the days before the holiday, but I decided to attend the last one on Christmas Eve, when Meg could be with me.

Snow was falling lazily. Glittering showers floated in the light of the street lamps powdering a large crowd of people who had come out to celebrate Christmas by attending the play and the carol service that would follow it. Mary, in traditional blue, rode Edward. He was proud to carry her. He danced through the snow, as he followed Joseph down the street.

When people called out, he turned his head to nod at them, his big ears waggling and his dark eyes seeking out each new admirer. Stuffed sheep had been borrowed from an upscale store dealing in sheepskins and two oxen had been painted on to the back drop which sealed off the inner doors to the church making a stage of the large porch. Edward was the only live animal taking part. With no rival he could take his place as one of the stars of the show.

The children presented the Christmas story clearly and with grace. Edward standing just outside the doors with the audience was the perfect extra.
His head turned to each character as they spoke, but otherwise he kept still. Mary and Joseph met the innkeeper, were turned away from the inn and directed to the stable. The shepherds arrived, sheep under their arms, and pushed through the audience to enter the porch. Then the three Kings, in shimmering robes, carrying their elaborate caskets, joined the stable scene. The choir, mingled with the audience, sang ‘O little Town of Bethlehem’, encouraging people to join in. Just as everyone was about to applaud, a messenger ran in shouting news of Herod’s atrocities—the slaughter of the innocents. Joseph and Mary were urged to flee. Mary mounted Edward once more and the Holy Family was escorted by the other characters back to the streets. The backdrop and props were removed from the porch and the audience entered for the carol service.

I didn’t follow them. Around the back of the church the children were running in and out of the vestry, where they were changing out of their costumes. Edward was waiting patiently for whatever came next. Meg and I watched the children, still hopping about with excitement. The inevitable low which follows the end of a successful performance hadn’t hit them yet. Ron came up to thank me and to say farewell to Edward. Impetuously, I invited him to a party I planned to give on New Year’s Eve. Then Meg and I led Edward away, home to his field.

I expected about thirty people on the evening of December 31st. Meg came back for the weekend and helped me prepare the food. She’s a great cook, as well as a promising actress. She didn’t have time to spend with Edward that day, nor did I, though I’d put some hay in his barn for him. By six-o-clock we were all ready, the food and drink set out and the lights on. The long drive was dark; I couldn’t do much about that. The guests arrived in dribs and drabs, but by eight nearly everyone was present. Cars parked all along the drive nearly to the road.

Harry and Janice, newcomers to the town, were the last to arrive. When they rang the bell, I went to welcome them, but before I could get there the bell rang again—and again. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” I muttered, “What’s your problem? It won’t kill you to wait a few moments.”

Even as I opened the door, Janice burst out, “You know this is a very spooky neighbourhood? I tell you—someone followed us all the way up the drive! I could hear his heavy breathing and stealthy footsteps.”
Gingerly I peered past them into the dark. I had my suspicions… though I could hardly believe that Edward had escaped his frozen pen. But over Janice’s shoulder, a ghostly face with black holes for eyes and a long, melancholy nose, drifted to the edge of the porch lights. Before he could

give joyful voice or attempt to enter the house, I shut the door firmly.
I found Megan and Ron arguing in the kitchen. Meg was lit up—words shooting from her like fire-works. Ron towered over her even though he was leaning against the counter.

“I see the practical side of it—of course I do. But bringing Herod into it shatters the Christmas peace. I like traditional at Christmas.”

Ron was unperturbed. “Christmas has to exist in the world as we know it.

It was a neat way to move the actors off stage, as well as reminding the
audience that the birth took place in an era as turbulent as our own.”
“Meg!” I broke in. “Save the arguments for later. Edward is out! Please go get him back right now.”

They both went out to find our errant donkey. Later they told me they had been unable to find his means of exit but that they’d lured him to his barn with extra food and treats.

However, in the next few weeks, Edward managed to leave his paddock several times and, since he was a danger on the road both to himself and any unwary drivers he met, I knew I was going to have to do something about the situation. Two of these escapades resulted in irate calls from neighbours and the police very late at night, which persuaded me that drastic measures were in order. However, one afternoon in February, I did find out how he was escaping. In the far corner of his field near the road there was a slight hollow, where in summer he liked to roll in the dusty grass, but now he was using it as a path to freedom. Lying flat, front legs stretched forward and back ones dragging behind him, he wiggled his body patiently on the crusted snow until he slid out under the fence and emerged into a shallow ditch. Then, he kicked up his heels merrily and trotted off down the road.

Meg was due to visit that weekend so I called her on Friday to tell her we needed to strengthen the fence, to bring the wire right down to the ground and bury it as deep as the weather would allow.

“That sounds like quite a project,” was her response. “Lucky I was going to bring a friend home this time. He can help out.”

When she arrived later that evening, I was surprised to find it was Ron Greene she had in tow. Their first concern was to visit with Edward and make sure that he was safely shut into his barn for the night, but when they returned they were ready to talk.

Meg began. “Remember I told you, the Lantern Theatre wanted some young people for ‘Spring Awakening’ and I got a part? That’s when I met up with Ron again. He was working on the same production.”

“We seldom seem to agree but I guess our discussions have kept us engaged!” said Ron. “They’ve become very important—essential really.”

“See, Mom? We think it’ll be much easier on both of us, if we share an apartment.”

Things had obviously raced along since Christmas. Here we were, not much more than six weeks later, and they were ready to move in together! I had my doubts about their prospects, but it takes a foolhardy mother to interfere in these matters, so I kept my reservations to myself. We spent the weekend making Edward’s field more secure. And, I must say, they laughed as often as they disagreed, enjoying the physical labour and working well together.

By April I’d grown accustomed to their relationship, which now seemed quite settled. Working in the theatre didn’t allow them an extravagant life-style, but they were happy. On the other hand, Edward and I still had problems. Our winter repairs had been successful, but I had a nasty feeling that Edward, full of the joys of spring, was looking for another way out. Then I heard that the horses we’d boarded in the past, were not returning for the summer. He was going to be as lonely as ever.
One night in May the telephone rang.

“Hey Nina!” said Ron. “Has Edward had ever been a companion to sheep?”

“Actually, yes. That was his job on my uncle’s farm.”

“My cousin’s got a problem with coyotes and is looking for a donkey to protect her flock. Would Edward like the job?”

Shortly afterwards, Edward returned to farm life. We visited at Christmas, wondering if he hankered after his glamorous, if fleeting, time as a star of the stage, but he seemed happy with his real-life sheep. The next year we weren’t able to go, though we heard from his new owner that all was well.

We were busy preparing for a different event. Right on time, on Christmas Eve, I received a call from Ron to say that I’d become a grandmother, Meg was well and that, of course, they were calling the baby Edward.

continued...


The following Christmas was celebrated at our new house in Peterborough. We had moved from the old one where my little brother had died. Now I had another little brother and we were starting over. This Christmas my parents were determined would be very merry. Our two favourite relatives, Uncle Philip and Nana were invited.
Christmas dinner was a big deal for the grown-ups. Mother’s best china, the silver, crystal and candles adorned the table. Father’s claim to the spotlight was carving the turkey with flourish, and lighting a tablespoonful of brandy to flame the pudding.
At that time we had a coal furnace that my father used to stoke morning and night. I remember the sound of rumbling thunder on the days that the coal man would deliver the coal to our chute. Our house was always toasty warm.
However, this Christmas, Nana kept complaining of feeling cold. My father trudged down the basement stairs to stoke the furnace once again. Uncle Philip jumped up and grabbed some ice cubes to hold against the thermostat, returning to his seat just as Father rounded the corner scratching his head. Pretty soon, Nana said, “I hate to bother you, but do you think you could stoke the fire again? I seem to be feeling a draft.” As soon as Father was out of sight, Uncle Philip applied the ice.
The summer before, my playmate at the lake had convinced me that Santa Claus was not real. She died of polio in the fall, so I was sure that her last words were prophetic. I searched the house until I found my mother’s stash of shopping bags piled in a dark corner of her closet. Sure enough, there was the walking doll I had asked for.
Christmas Eve I promised myself I would stay awake all night to prove that Santa Claus did not put that walking doll under the tree. Strangely enough, that was the only year that I saw Santa. Yes, I saw him in his sleigh behind the eight reindeer just as they crossed over the full moon en route back to the North Pole. You can imagine how confused I was to see that same walking doll from Mother’s closet under the tree in the morning. How did that get there?
The next Christmas we trekked to Toronto, this time to visit Aunt Dorothy. She had seven children and her husband, Uncle Don, had just died suddenly of a heart attack, so of course we all had to go there. The kids spent most of the holiday in the basement recreation room, under the supervision of the older cousins.
This was my initiation into the art of the Indian rub. Cousin Bill was the expert and, as a lanky teenaged boy, the object of my affection. I sidled up to him repeatedly and he would oblige by wringing my wrist until I squealed in delight and pain. This was the first occasion that I experienced a class difference with my cousins. I was wearing hand-me-downs while each of the other five girls wore a sparkly new party dress.
Then there was the Christmas we celebrated at the lake in July. We were renting a cottage jointly with Aunt Ruth, Uncle Howard, and their two horrible boys. They wouldn’t let me play with them, so I amused myself by stalking. Their game was to escape my clinging presence every day.
The cap on the holiday was supposed to be a turkey dinner, cooked by my aunt and my mother. In all the confusion of two cooks in the kitchen, someone left a tea towel in the turkey cavity, and the bird was a disaster. The conversation unwound for literally years afterwards: well how did that happen?
What I learned is that you don’t have to like your relatives. We never spent another holiday, Christmas or not, with that particular foursome.
We spent five Christmases in Montreal, the suburbs actually. We lived in a burb so new that none of the houses on our street had grass. We walked over the mud on planks from the door to the street for the first six months. In winter, walking home from school, I couldn’t see the house until I reached my own driveway because of the snow mounds left by the plough.
The neighbourhood was very homogeneous, young families whose fathers had been transferred to some head office or other for training. In four years, most of us were gone, transferred out again with promotions to the branches of the companies. In the meantime, my parents formed a cohesive unit with the neighbours and partied together. I babysat up and down the street and thus had the opportunity to look in all the bathroom cabinets and bedroom closets.
What was remarkable about Christmases in Montreal was that it was the only time in my mother’s life that she was recognized as a musician. She played the piano for Saturday night sing-a-longs at parties, and the organ for Sunday morning hymns in our brand new church. She always claimed not to be very good and felt pressure to step up only until someone with proper credentials came along. But I think that was her shining hour.
What was remarkable about Christmas holidays in my later teens was that for New Year’s we were invited to Uncle Philip’s penthouse in Toronto. It was only a two-bedroom affair but located on the top corner of a swanky apartment complex, so we called it The Penthouse.
Uncle Philip made a point of going to the St. Lawrence market every Saturday for fresh bread and vegetables and meat, so when we came for New Year’s there was sure to be a feast second to none. My first taste of vichyssoise was creamy and cheesy and onion-y and unforgettably delicious.
All the cousins played board games and Simon Says; then the youngest boy showed off his card tricks. The day was full of happy noise. After dinner we paraded in High Park with our red scarves around our necks and our woolly hats on our heads for the New Year’s walk. What joy if it snowed in that magical landscape of evergreens and whimsical statues and crooked paths.
There was the Christmas of the prolonged argument about my wedding plans, my father stomping around the living room shouting about tradition, much like Tevia in Fiddler on the Roof.
The year my husband and I lived in Europe, we spent Christmas in St. Anton, a world famous Austrian ski resort. We stayed in a pensione that housed guests over the stable. There were only two sources of heat: the cattle below, and hot water. Before bed, I would wash every part of me that I could fit into the sink, then dive under the eiderdown.
Christmas Eve we went to mass in the village church on the side of the mountain. When we came out after the service someone had lit candles on all the graves and a trumpeter played Silent Night from the church tower as we walked home through the falling snow.
I spent most of the next day crying in a bout of homesickness after a long distance phone call to Canada.
Then, the one and only time in my life, we went to a restaurant for Christmas dinner. Our whole ski class was there, but everyone was discreetly watching three people: our handsome tall blond ski instructor, his lover – the beautiful Gretchen from Munchen, and her business tycoon husband who had just arrived to claim her for the day. The ski instructor got slowly drunk.
One December back in Canada, after we had children, we had planned to stay home. Surprisingly, we couldn’t stand the quiet, so we shoved the golden brown turkey in the freezer and packed the car for Montreal. We had to be with family for Christmas.
The snow was falling thick and heavy. At Cornwall an aggressive driver passed us, dumping a load of the wet stuff on our windshield, temporarily blinding me, the driver. Two hours later a tow truck pulled us out of the ditch and the driver wished us Merry Christmas.

The first Christmas after the divorce with its forced gaiety was a definite low point. When I look back at the photographs, I see the children’s grim faces under their paper hats. I remember the meeting with my ex in a parking lot somewhere at precisely three o’clock to pass the children over for his turn. For seven years, every Christmas we religiously adhered to the three o’clock schedule until the children put a stop to it when they came home from university.
We had a habit of attending Christmas Eve services. The carols, the crowd of friends, the nativity plays enacted by the children all highlighted the event. One year my son played Joseph. When it came time for the baby to be born, with a big smirk on his face he hauled a doll out by its leg and flung it onto Mary’s lap.
On two consecutive Christmas Eves my daughter disappeared during the height of passion in the service. One minute she’d be singing O Holy Night beside me, the next she’d be in a heap, fainted on the floor. We thought she was just overwrought until we found out she had low blood sugar.
The best Christmas was this past year. All the traditions were in place including our quirky tree with its home-made ornament collection of twenty-five years. My son played Christmas carols on guitar and we sang along. I cooked the turkey with all the trimmings so the air in the house was warm and moist with the rich brown flavour. The dining room table was stretched to its full length to accommodate the new in-laws and their offspring. The places were set with my mother’s blue and white Royal Crown Darby china, silver, and crystal. As I snapped photographs of my two-year-old grandson opening the red wrapping around his sleigh, my daughter in my mother’s rocking chair nursing her newborn, my ex-husband and his second wife raising their glasses in a toast, I realized my dream of an authentic Christmas had come true. The spirit of Christmas had come to my home at last.

Now we are going into our 91st year. As an organization with a shrinking membership, we've lost a certain amount of relevance if we look back to see when our organization was formed in the first place: when WI came into being, Canada's population was 80% rural and 20% urban. Now it's the reverse.

Communications such as radio, television, and the internet are available in most communities. Many women work outside the home: rare is the mother who is able to stay home while her children are small. There are courses and books on every conceivable subject, so that a woman can find out anything she wants to know.

Organizations for women abound, many of them highly specialized and exclusive. Where does this leave Women's Institute? How can we stay afloat with so much competition for women's time?

Agriculture is becoming global rather than local; factories are closing; the very nature of work, and where to find it, is being transformed. These events have forced many in the rural community off the family farm and caused the jobs in town disappear.

Families are leaving the provinces where they were born and having to seek employment in places strange to them. For the wives and mothers in these families, membership in the WI can help to make the transition easier. It offers them a base, an anchor in their new lives. When they join, they can meet their neighbours, make a host of new friends, and find out what resources their new community has to offer.

Newcomers can be inspired to get more involved in their community and find out what's going on and what the needs are. They can learn about local history from the members who were born in the area.

The Women's Institute is like a sisterhood, providing the sisters, aunts and cousins that many of us lack. From among the members of our local branches, we can form lasting friendships that can support, comfort and encourage us for the rest of our lives.

Many women are living longer and can expect to face being alone, since their life expectancy exceeds that of their husbands. Their children have relocated to the city and many have left for jobs far away. Membership in the WI can help fill those gaps.

Although a number of laws have been changed to better reflect the needs of women, there's still much to be done. The voice of the organization can play a large part in hanging on to these changes and putting pressure on the governments for further changes, benefiting women and their families.

We need to work harder on our resolutions and put them forward in a more timely fashion. We need to be more visible in our communities. The R.O.S.E. program is an excellent step in that direction.

My vision for the future? We need to consider changing our perspective. With all the demands being made on them, younger women haven't time to get involved in an organization like ours; however, many women, in their mid fifties and older, are retiring from the cities in large numbers and relocating to the small towns and the countryside.

So let's concentrate on the older woman. She has the time; the experiences to share; the need for friends and companionship; the wish to contribute to her community; the desire to make life better for succeeding generations.

The collected voice of Women's Institute members can make a difference. We aren't ready to quit yet!

Downey Pharmacy offers a full range of
giftware - personal care products - DVD's - flowers and cards
- personal assistance devices...
along with a dependable prescription service provided by our highly qualified and knowledgable staff. 
For regular specials check the Guardian Drugs website. It is packed with helpful information.

Bouquets
Flower arrangements
Weddings
Funerals
Special events
Dish gardens
Potted plants
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headstone saddles
Balloon bouquets
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Delivery from
Brighton to Cobourg and north