I sat in my big green chair with eyes closed. Pictures of past Christmas celebrations floated by on the screen of my memory.
Whenever I think back, visions of life on the prairie farm come first. The weather often gave us a rough time in December and January. One December the temperature dropped to -40 degrees and stayed there for weeks. We tolerated trips to the barn to look after the few animals we kept.
But we positively hated the regular trips to the well, about 100 hundred yards from the house and down in the coulee bottom. Lashed by the wind on the exposed hillside, we’d spill water from the buckets and stumble into the house with our pant legs frozen solid.
In that cold December the water in the shallow well froze so the bucket on the rope just bounced uselessly on the ice. My brother, being older, got an axe, climbed into the well and cut a hole big enough to fill the bucket. He had to repeat that performance every day until the cold snap ended in the new year.
The holiday break usually arrived on the Alberta farm adorned with a number of symbols: cold crisp days, often with driving winds and a crust on the snow that would support a horse; if we had money for batteries, the radio would play carols. We’d have days off school, giving us rest from the quarter mile hike to meet the horse-drawn school van and the one or two hour trip to town.
When we moved from the farm to London, Ontario, things got much better. We quickly adapted to a house with indoor plumbing and electricity.
“We’ll be healthier and have a great Christmas this year,” Mother said.
She had bought the house and furniture for a few dollars down and $12 per month. Somewhere she had scraped up enough money to buy an old radio that plugged into the electricity. Now we could listen to carols without Mother worrying about the cost of batteries.
We looked forward to a great Christmas. Gifts, more than we’d ever seen before, piled up under the scrawny tree, thanks to Aunt Elsie and Uncle Sam. When the magic day arrived, my brother and I, dispirited and pale, dressed in pyjamas and wrapped in blankets, sat on the floor before the tree, our necks and jaws swollen.
“Mom,” I whined, “Why did we get the mumps for Christmas?”
The next Christmas got better. My sister got the mumps.
When I think of Christmas spent as an adult, those in South Africa always clamour for attention.
We found ourselves in a country where the reversed seasons put December 25 in mid-summer; they celebrated with a swim and braifleis (barbecue).
The people decorated for the season with multicolored streamers, not just red and green. If you wanted a Christmas tree, you bought one rooted in a bucket.
We felt culture shock and frustration; our tried and true traditions did not fit; we needed new customs to survive in a strange land. So for the next few Christmases, we joined 2,000 African people at a conference and stayed into the new year immersing ourselves in African culture.
Have a great Christmas.
The one you celebrate today will become a prized memory in the future.
