The Way It Was

Once a year, their normally reserved grandfather showed a softer side

One day, while reminiscing about our childhood, my sister Mina—who is nine years older than I am—shared the following memory with me.

Our country home was always filled with warmth. Warmth from the woodstove and warmth from Mother’s love. Even the aromas from the cookstove spoke a message of love.

We never seemed to notice that times were hard or money was scarce. After all, we were like everyone else in our community. Children played freely, and neighbours stopped by unexpectedly for a cup of hot tea.

Mother was known for her hospitality, first to her family, but also to all who entered her kitchen. Always the thrifty homemaker, luxuries were kept for special occasions. As fall approached and then Christmas neared, fruit, nuts and coconut would appear in our pantry. Mixed with the crispness of the first fall of snow, new and delicious aromas filled our senses. Fruitcakes lined the shelves, doughnuts were stacked high, scotch cakes sat on pretty dishes and her extraspecial mocha cakes, wrapped in pretty frosting and rolled in coconut or walnuts, tempted little fingers.

We lived about a ten-minute walk up the road from our grand- parents, Scott and Florence Dunlay. Grandfather was a big man in stature. He was a farmer, a hardworking man who was often rough in his way of working. He was also known as a man of few words. We very seldom saw him when he wasn’t in work clothes and we never expected him to pay a visit—except at Christmas. And then, sometime between Christmas and New Year, he would walk up the road in his “visiting clothes.” As if it were the most important task in the world, Grandfather would enter the kitchen and take a seat in the rocking chair beside the woodstove.

He and my father would engage in conversation, with Dad doing most of the talking, while Grandfather would respond with a “yes” or a “hmm.”

Then Mother would enter the kitchen, put the teapot on the hot part of the stove and pour boiling water over fresh tea leaves. After waiting the appropriate time for the tea to steep, she’d place a pretty plate of her Christmas baking, along with the tea in a china cup, on the warming part of the stove for Grandfather.

Even at a young age, I would sit in wonder as I watched the transformation of this rough man who only paid this kind of visit at Christmas. Our country kitchen held an extra warmth and became almost magical as I watched my grandfather’s huge hands circle the china cup and eat dainty cookies and fruitcake. He would eat every crumb my mother set out for him and shortly after, he’d take his leave saying, “Merry Christmas!” n