Warm memories, created by a tireless mom, are a gift that lasts forever
When I look back at my traditions of Christmas, growing up in a family of eight in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, I remember my mom and her tireless efforts to make it a good one.
Our first hint that Christmas was coming was when we arrived from school to a house filled with the aroma of baked fruitcakes. The larger ones would be packed away, along with meat pies made from our great-grandmother’s recipe; the misshaped fruitcakes were for afterschool snacking.
Before long the outdoor lights would be unpacked and every light checked. This would be no fancy display of reindeer and plastic Santas; just a string of coloured lights hung around the trim of the gallery so Santa could find our house from the night sky.
Christmas started by heading downtown to watch the annual Santa Claus parade. Mom would pack us up in our hats, mitts and snowsuits with a pocket full of tissues for runny noses. We would ride the city bus packed with neighbour kids to see the real Santa Claus, which could only be found on the sixth floor of Eaton’s — in the toy department. (The reason we knew he was the real deal was because most of our gifts would come in Eaton boxes and it’s where his elves would exchange them if the colour or size was wrong.)
Our tree was always bought at the same lot near the Steinberg store were mom would haggle size and make sure delivery was included in the price. Trimming the tree would involve making sure each piece of tinsel was hung one string at a time and the lights were never left on too long for fear of causing a fire.
Mom would hide away in her bedroom to pack bags full of gifts and quickly the front closet became off limits.
The night before Christmas, after evening services, we each were allowed to open one gift; often it was our new pyjamas. Come morning, we would be amazed by a sea of colourful Christmas packages but could only open our stockings before breakfast. (Should anything be missing, it would appear a few days later with a note saying: “Santa forgot it in his sled.”)
The rest of our Christmas day would be spent visiting relatives and feasting on all types of sweets — and those once-hidden fruitcakes. As we headed off to bed that night, mom would ask if we had a good Christmas.
Much has changed since those N.D.G. Christmas memories. The family is now mostly i n Ontario. The sadness of Alzheimer’s has left my mom bedridden in a long-term care centre, where her once bright smile is now locked away. When I visit my siblings, however, I see the same efforts put into their own families’ Christmas traditions. I feel the memories of Christmas and a dear mom who always did her best to make each of us have a good Christmas.