Christmas Ritual

December 19, 2020

It was 5:30 - “not yet,” I told myself.  “Too soon,”  because mom will be mad.  “Wait until 6 and then you can go downstairs” I kept the mantra going in my head.   

6 was the time when I could descend the curved stairs to the lower level where there was heat, yes, but also, on this morning, where there were gifts under the tree. 

The tree was in the “front room”, the room where we played piano and put the tree but didn’t otherwise use all year.  It was the room where the “good furniture” was - gold and brown three-seater Chesterfield and matching chair, green nylon rocker that would survive a nuclear war, a pine sofa table across the front window, and the piano, loaned by a benevolent neighbour when my parents were very poor. It was important to them that my older sisters have musical training, and that priority was extended to me too.  

The tree was, in those years, real, harvested a few days earlier from a bush near our farm.  I think everyone cut their own tree out of that forest.  Did dad pay the farmer? Not sure.  Never with candles or lights - mom was afraid of fire - but with many old ornaments.  I remember a black Santa whose silver accents had long since worn off, some assorted coloured baubles, and tinsel all lovingly put away every year wrapped in tattered bits of tissue paper.  A few years later, after the piano was replaced with a modern one, and the room had been renovated complete with one wall done in mirrored tiles, mom got an artificial tree and decorated it each year like it was in a magazine. It seemed very fancy - green and white gingham ribbons, gold balls, gold garland.  It looked great with the gold and brown Chesterfield  and tied the green chair in.  Yes, although the room was renovated the furniture was still in good knick so it stayed. 

At 6, I began down the stairs to get to that tree and more importantly, the bounty underneath it.  Helen and Phil, both still living at home then, shot past me.  Teenagers then, they were still keen to get in on the action.  Judy, our oldest sister was living on her own by then but was always home for Christmas.  She was the last down the stairs, more mature and not wanting to belie any enthusiasm.  But even she knew we had a job to do - haul all the gifts up the stairs to mom and dad’s bed.  It was the only time all year that we were welcome into their room.  Dad even put on pyjama bottoms for the occasion!  We went up and down a few times to make sure we had everything and piled it in the centre of the bed.  

There weren’t that many gifts. Mom (the decision maker) made sure we had one decent sized gift and maybe one or two little things. No stockings. Everything was wrapped and had gift cards that said “Santa” but in writing that strongly resembled mom’s.  I think that we likely gave each other gifts too although to be honest, I don’t really remember that part. The main event was what mom had produced from Santa.   I clued in about Santa pretty early - the handwriting made it hard to ignore the truth - but  I kept up the facade to make it more fun for everyone.  I was the baby and if I gave up on Santa, then everyone else had to too. 

One year Santa brought me a large stuffed rabbit that mom had made herself late at night after I went to bed.  I kept that rabbit until a couple of years ago when I gave it to my step-granddaughters.  Still pristine, it was evidence of a childhood that was very solitary and very orderly, much like the way I am as an adult.  Everything is kept a long time and in good shape.  

Some gifts were put under the tree before Christmas Eve so that we had something to try to figure out.  “It’s a watch”, I remember saying one year, about a 10 inch by 4 inch by one inch package.  I was so convinced, I could even see the word Timex through the wrapping paper.  I was shocked when I opened that one:  “an eraser!” I said in shock.  “But where’s my watch?”  I didn’t get a watch that year.  There must have been a bigger gift but I cannot remember what it was.  There was always one big gift. 

Sometime over the years we started opening gifts one at a time but in those early Christmas mornings, once everything was on the bed,  it was a free for all.  

“Cel, this is yours.” 

“Phil, catch.” 

“Hey, Helen, pass me that one.” 

“Hey that’s mine!” 

“Woohoo, look what I got!”

“Mom, I love this!!”

Rip, rip, rip.  In no time, everyone had their pile of items - often many books - unwrapped and was marvelling at them while furtively looking at what others had received.  Did mom like the books about houseplants? Did dad like the book about operas?  Whether we were finished or not, dad left to milk the cows by about 6:15.  We had to be efficient.  

We eventually all trundled downstairs to get down to the work of the day: reading, listening to the radio, and writing thank you cards to English relatives who always sent money.  

Mom’s job was a bigger one.  She was up that early to get the turkey into the oven.  Some years, our other sister, Cathy, would arrive mid-morning with her husband. She’d left a few years earlier for a town an hour and a half away.  Every other year, she and her husband spent the day with his family.  Regardless, there would be the full-on meal usually at lunch - turkey with stuffing and gravy for which we all fought over the dark meat and the neck, mashed turnip, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, all followed up with Christmas pudding with white sauce.   Usually by then, the Queen’s message was on the radio and we’d gather around, somewhat making fun but always wanting to hear what she was up to.  We’d then resume our positions reading until it was time for a turkey sandwich.  Sometime during the day or the evening, we’d gather around the piano to sing some carols, especially if Cathy was there. On the years she wasn’t present, I don’t know who played in the early years - maybe dad.  When I got a little older I’d take a stab at playing and much later, dad and I would play flute-cello duets.  We weren’t much for games but sometimes Scrabble (with mom) or Monopoly (with Phi) would occupy us through part of the day. 

Were these good memories?  Qualified yes.  There was always a tension.  Phil was like a caged animal, desperate it seemed to be elsewhere, with people who were more normal than us.  Mom was crabby from having to pull off a big meal alone, seemingly by choice. It always seemed like an enormous chore and I know from later years doing it myself, it is a big and thankless job.  Judy was never very social at family events.  Truth is, in later years, I stopped attending family Christmases. Too much unspoken. Nothing authentic.  

But that tradition of taking all the presents upstairs to the bed: that’s a nice memory.