Holidays past
‘Christmas in Cape Breton I’ll never be forgettin’ ’
When I think of Christmas many years ago in Canada’s largest coal mining town, my memory needs little stimulus.
My first thoughts present ominous snowdrifts reaching heights of 10 to 15 feet, boasting their appearance of permanence. I used to wonder how Santa would ever make it all the way from Newfoundland, but he always did.
While nature’s uncharted path of wind and fury scowled over the town of Glace Bay, with gale thrusts up to 40-miles per hour, families prepared for the holiday season – enjoying the warmth of a coal stove. There were no forced air furnaces years ago. The usual supplement to the regular coal stove was the standard “warm-morning heaters” or Quebec heaters as some people called them. Some folks had them in their living rooms.
As fruitcakes were unwrapped, mincemeat pies were extracted from the oven only to be replaced by an abundant supply of sausages (Danny Gillis’) or even a glazed ham for visitors on Christmas Eve.
Suddenly, the doorbell would ring and we would receive the “toast of the season,” a plum pudding soaked in Cognac from our neighbor Mrs. Jack McRea.
Alcohol was never a staple in our household, but there were candies – chocolates, generous chunks of maple sugar and ribbon candy were stocked everywhere a hand could reach, and the tiny little red soldiers all obliged.
The tree was never less than six-feet-tall, usually spruce or pine and home grown, of course. This yuletide sentinel was adorned with everything from tinsel to buttons and sometimes even costume jewelry.
Amidst this symphony of joyousness could be heard the music of Christmas sung by everyone in earshot, accompanied by a piano or some other natural instrument. In the absence of these happy strains, CJCB radio would provide a continuous menu of musical delights for the season, including a first class recitation from Ann Terry McClelland to enhance one’s listening pleasure.
Finally, the turkey was stuffed and set aside for the feast of Christmas. Then, it was off to midnight mass. From Chapel Hill, we would all plunge into the relentless North Atlantic winds. Christmas Eve mass at St. Ann’s church was an indelible experience of unsurpassed warmth and happiness. The aroma at first was a beautiful blend of candle wax and pine boughs, but was soon accompanied by the unmistakable bouquet of black rum – this was usually stronger at the back of the church.
I began attending midnight mass as a choirboy at the age of eight; it was quite a spectacle – 40 angelic voices would proclaim the good news dressed in red capes, cassocks and starched surplices.
Jubilate Deo, Adeste Fideles, O Little Town of Bethlehem, When Blossoms Flowered Beneath the Snow and Schubert’s Ave Maria were but a few of those everlasting greats.
Our unblemished performance was assured by the artistic direction of Steve MacGillivray and organist Sister Cecelia Joseph (nee Pickup, New Waterford, N.S). As we sang from the choir loft we watched the congregation below rise with another spiritual contingent of altar boys who stood motionless on either side of the altar where Fr. M.A. Mac Adam led his flock in the celebration of the word in Latin.
On Christmas morning, toys and wrapping paper covered living rooms everywhere. “Wooden” toys, hockey sticks, wooden cribs and dolls were the perennial favorites – I’ll never forget my wooden fire truck, and of course my own hockey stick with which I so proudly transported my old skates off to the “bog” or the “marsh” to play all day completely oblivious to the cold.
My skates were really old – I used to wonder if my father had worn them when he played with the Sydney Millionaires before the Great War. In addition to a warm pair of pit-socks, I used to stuff the toes with sections of “Post Record” and used the rest of the editions for shin pads – to me there was no greater life.
We certainly didn’t have a care in the world. We played all day until dark to the point where we could no longer skate and end up laying on the ice gazing at the stars: God’s nightly performance.
Memories of Christmas would not be complete without recalling that activity abounded with endless energy: that of “coasting.” Many youngsters received sleighs from Jolly Old St. Nick and in the town of Glace Bay, the local streets were the best places for sledding, like Curry St., Alexander St., King Edward and Bay.
The only thing that cleared the streets at this time of fun was the Paddy Wagon or the town curfew siren that was usually ignored. Toward the end of the holiday season we would receive a visit from my Dad’s uncle, Rod S. MacNeil, from Big Pond. During his sojourn the living room was off limits – I believe it had something to do with the demon rum.
I’m sure Uncle Rod S. was Abraham Lincoln’s double, not only in stature, but also his ability for telling yarns. Both he and my dad reveled in the exchange of stories from hockey to politics. Rod S. had an unforgettable countenance that made his conversation all the more important, even when a sense of humour was warranted. He used to call me “Little Dan the Fast Horse” in honour of an old relative, Dan MacIsaac, who used to train racehorses.
Sometimes a cousin of my mother’s followed his visit, from Louisbourg, Clarence Connington. He was a very friendly gentleman, a true conversationalist and he consumed great amounts of tea served with “Bannaich” or tea biscuits and molasses.
At any rate, Christmas was a time to share peace and good will among all people that hasn’t changed to this day.
This holiday season, may we all find richness in the unlimited harvest of peace, which the baby Jesus has brought to the world.
May you and yours have a “Christmas in Cape Breton you’ll never be forgettin.”