A childhood Christmas

That year, snow began falling during the Christmas Eve service. Afterward, groups of men worked to shove each car through the nearly 12 inches of heavy white stuff. Fortunately, a snowplow had passed along the Island Highway while we were inside, and carloads filled with excitement-crazed children made their way home without too much difficulty.

In our house, presents waited until morning. I awakened around 6 a.m. when I heard the furnace turn on and our mother moving about as she stuffed the giant turkey. Then the oven door opened and closed. I lifted the corner of my bedroom curtain to reveal a grey-white coverlet over the still-dark world. During the night another 12 inches had fallen.

I slid deeper under my covers knowing we would have to wait until 8 a.m. before being allowed downstairs. I knew the drill. Dad would read from the Bible and pray before one of us would be selected to hand out the presents. Only after they were distributed were we allowed to open them, one gift at a time. No mad ripping chaos allowed in our house. Might as well settle in and stay toasty.

After a short time, I overheard the phone call telling dad that church was cancelled. Hooray! This year we would have all morning to play with our presents.

Then a loud thunk as a transformer blew. The power was out. I heard my mother shriek: “The turkey!” Always pragmatic and unflappable and with phone lines still operational, dad called grandma. She was the lone holdout in the family who had not given up her faithful oil stove for electric. Could we cook our turkey and eat at her place instead of ours? Of course.

Dad loaded the turkey and anything else requiring an operational stove into a large box. He strapped it to the toboggan, and set off on the half-mile walk to grandma’s place.

With the furnace also out, on dad’s return we didn’t dawdle over breakfast or focus long on our new toys. We took one thing to play with, bundled up and walked over to grandma’s, where the oil stove soon warmed our skinny, numb bodies. After a while, our cousins came as there was no power at their place either. Fourteen of us crammed into her 500 squarefoot kitchen and living room.

We opened grandma’s presents — always a new pair of hand-knit slippers. We played games. We sang. We ate. And ate. The turkey. All the trimmings. Tarts and pies. Mountains of nuts. Piles of Japanese oranges. Rosebuds and hard candy. No one counted a calorie or cautioned anyone to stop. We simply refilled the bowls when they ran low.

As the afternoon’s moody skies deepened into night, grandpa lit the kerosene lanterns. We carried on in their glow and the warmth of the old oil stove. Thankfully, my cousins and siblings — seven rowdy boys — bolted to the attic for a good part of the time. The men sat in the living room and talked.

Women washed and dried the dishes. Afterward we sat down to chat and relax around the table. Was anyone still hungry? No. We ached and groaned and insisted we couldn’t eat another thing. Before long, my aunt reached for the nutcracker. I popped a couple of rosebuds as I peeled another orange. Soon another pile of nutshells grew as we chucked them into the centre of the table. We looked at each other, laughed and shook our heads. Tomorrow we would be sensible again.

After the power came back on, we reluctantly made our way home to our own frigid houses. Except for two dolls at ages four and nine, and at six my letter to Santa Claus that was read over the radio, I remember few specifics of the happy haze of childhood Christmases. However, this charmed day remains indelible.

Lynda Grace Philippsen Victoria