A is for Angels
On Dec. 7, 1941, I was seven years old and we lived in Louisbourg, N.S. That was the day that Pearl Harbor was bombed. I don’t remember that. But, that Sunday evening I printed my name on the Christmas cards I would be giving to my friends at school, while my mother wrote notes on the cards she was sending. It was a happy evening as we looked forward to Christmas.
What happened the next morning would cast a shadow over the Christmas celebrations of my youth. Our minister arrived as I was finishing my breakfast. He had in his hand a telegram from Ottawa: Ronald, my oldest brother, had been killed overseas.
I didn’t go to school that day. But, the next day, there would be a practice for our Christmas pageant. I was a shepherd and I didn’t want to miss it. So I went to school. Just before recess, the teacher asked me to stay behind. She told me she knew I would be too sad to be in the pageant so she was going to give my part to someone else. That really made me sad.
But, there was still the Sunday School concert. I was the “A” in CHRISTMAS. I would hold up a large “A” card and say clearly, slowly and loudly: “A” is for angels whose voice rang; ‘Goodwill and peace on earth’ they sang.” That evening my Sunday school teacher came to our house with a cake. As she was leaving, she whispered to me: “Everyone knows that your house is in mourning over Ronald, so I am going to find someone else to do your part and you won’t have to come to practices anymore.” She smiled at me and I tried to smile back. Her cake had bright pink strawberryflavoured icing. Seventy-five years have passed, and pink-strawberry anything still nauseates me.
We never went to any Christmas concerts or celebrations because we were too sad to go to places like that. I did get a bag of hard candy. My friend, Edison, asked Santa Claus at the Sunday school concert for an extra bag of candy.
When I asked about a Christmas tree, my mother told me it wouldn’t be right to have a tree or put up decorations because Ronald was dead. “Is Santa Claus going to stay away from our sad house, too?” I asked. “No, he will come.” “But, where is he going to put the presents if we don’t have a tree? “My mother hesitated and then replied: “He’ll probably put them at the end of your bed.” My older brother, seeing my sad face, asked if he could cut a small tree and put it in my bedroom. My mother agreed to a small tree, “but it will have to go out as soon as the needles begin to drop!” It was a beautiful tree. All my own! But I was not allowed to show it to anyone or tell anyone I had a tree.
On Christmas Eve, my parents were surprised by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Hiltz. She was the “second” Mrs. Hiltz and she had never been to our house before. She had come from “up in Nova Scotia” and had a reputation of being distant and a severe stepmother. People like my mother, who had been friends of the “first” Mrs. Hiltz, kept their distance. I used to visit Mrs. Hiltz with some of my friends. She was always pleasant and always had cookies for us. My mother tried to discourage my visits because she thought I might be a nuisance and get in trouble, and she “didn’t want to cross swords with that woman!”
Mr. Hiltz had a large parcel. She said the parcel was for me because I was such a pleasant child and she enjoyed my visits. My parents were surprised and pleased. Later, my father said to me: “That gift was a great compliment for you and our family.” He smiled. I had not seen that smile since we heard about my brother’s death. The gift was a wind-up train with some rail cars and tracks.
Later, as I lay in bed listening to Christmas carols on the radio downstairs, I noticed the moonlight shining through the frost on my bedroom window. In the frost I saw the shapes of angels and I said to myself, “A is for angels whose voices rang: ‘Goodwill and peace on earth,’ they sang. A beautiful peace seemed to settle on our sad house and I went to sleep thinking of the wonderful gift I had received, downstairs: The wonderful smile on my father’s face.
Gordon Cann