Christmas 1994: a true story

Every few years, someone asks me to re-run an old column that has appeared here a couple of times. It’s only one request, but hers counts the most. I might have replaced a word or two here, but it appears essentially the same as the first time I wrote it for a newspaper — not this one — in 1996. I wouldn’t call the Christmas of 1994 the best one I ever had, but it is probably, in mostly good ways, the most memorable.

Christmas Eve, 1994, and I’m living in a run-down house in Black Creek, a rural part of Vancouver Island and about 15 miles from the small city of Courtenay. Magnificent scenery: it was something to wake up in the morning, look out a window and feast your eyes on snow-capped mountains.

I had access to running water, a wood stove and electricity; but no car, telephone or TV. No job, either, although I’d been promised one before flying to the B.C. hinterland (long story why, and it doesn’t matter now).

For my weekly NFL fix, I would hitchhike to civilization on Saturday and Sunday mornings to spend several hours at a sports bar, watching football on a big screen TV.

I don’t remember the name of the place (it was something close to The Train Whistle) but I’d order the cheapest bar food on the menu — potato skins with melted cheese — and nurse maybe three beers through the day, spending just enough money to stay in the bartender’s good graces. It was all one could afford on a pogey-fuelled budget and while I don’t recall exactly, it’s doubtful I left a big tip.

On this particular Christmas Eve morning, steady rain fell from the endless grey sky of Vancouver Island winter, as I stood hitchhiking on the shoulder of the road in front of that house. After what seemed like an hour or more, a Good Samaritan in a pickup truck pulled over to give me a ride.

The man said he flew helicopters into the deep of old forests of B.C., where the terrain was so formidable that logs had to be removed by air, after the forestry workers brought down the massive timber.

I am sure that I told him why I’d hitchhike to a sports bar at 11 a.m.; I must have, because when I arrived home hours later, on the front porch was a well-used, but functioning, black-and-white TV, with a business card taped to its side. Someone had written ‘Merry Christmas’ on the back of the card and on its front was the name of the business, with a photo of a helicopter carrying a huge log.

Christmas is what you make of it, as an old sage once said. There is the magic of this time of year. For me, much of it is the music (put on some Elvis, honey) and the lights and family.

Once the mad rush is over, it seems almost everyone is in good spirits and the season makes us better people for awhile, don’t you think?

Crowded stores, a lightened wallet and cranky shoppers bring little joy, but I could testify that it’s a lot better than hitchhiking in the rain, more than 3,000 miles from home.

Kevin Adshade is sportswriter with The News. His column appears each Saturday.