MAKING SENSE OF THE HOLIDAYS DURING THE PANDEMIC
I have a fake tree.
It's lying on its side, unassembled, on the living room floor. Has been for well over a week.
Beside it are strings of lights also dragged up from the basement. The Christmas stockings are scattered alongside this pile. I never bothered with the crates of ornaments. They were never, ever, a part of the plan for this wretched year.
I've been telling people that, this year, my unassembled, undecorated Christmas tree is what you call “deconstructed.” Very hip. Very modern. Very horizontal. There are only a few more days left, but I can't say this situation is going to improve.
I'm having a hard time getting excited for Christmas 2020. I could just blame it on the pandemic, but this isn't entirely a pandemic response. If asked to sum myself up in three words, I'd say: Lazy. And I'm particularly festive-lazy. I don't like putting up a tree in the best of years. To me, it's like logging and cake decorating combined. I wouldn't mind so much if it weren't all so short lived. But all that hauling, assembling, festooning, and then? A few days later, all the same work but in reverse — without the incentive of a glowing tannenbaum or a hot rum toddy. And this year, I'd be doing it for an audience of one or two. Hardly worth it, in my books.
I've put up a wreath, I have. So, there's that. It's a cheery thing illuminated with a battery-operated string of lights. At first glance, it looks like a traditional wreath, but when you look carefully you'll see it is adorned with disposable latex gloves, masks,
and hand sanitizer. Bunting-like, I've stretched a mask from one side to the other with “Merry COVID” emblazoned on it.
I sent out Christmas cards this year. Yep. For the first time in a long time, I put a batch of cards in the post. Instead of wishing people Season's Greetings, however, I wished everyone herd immunity. I can't think of a better wish for 2021 than herd immunity.
Making sense of the holidays during a pandemic is particularly challenging. Is it an exercise in futility or is it a commitment to hope? I won't have a bead on this until Boxing Day.
Lots of people are opting to simply give the holidays a miss. Others are taking on the season with a vengeance. Most of us are waffling in between. In November, Diwali, celebrating light over darkness, was especially poignant, but mostly stripped of its usual celebration. Hanukkah, which concluded its eighth night of candle-lighting last night, was
devoid of much of its usual sense of family and community. As for Christmas, 2020 may prove the year the Grinch finally wins.
From what I'm hearing, most people are resigned to complying with provincial health orders. Presents are being exchanged with the furtive arrangements usually reserved for dropping off ransom money. Parties seem like reckless relics of a distant past, and families gathering around the tree have the air of a conclave or a summit of Mafia dons.
So, if it's just your immediate household observing the big day, what then? What about dinner? When there's just two or three of you, do you cook a turkey? Usually, I need a winch to get my turkey in the oven. In years gone by, it wasn't uncommon to have 24 for dinner. And even if you do roast a bird, what about stuffing? Stuffing for two people is just sad. Would boxed Stove Top set an irreversible precedent? Are turkey hotdogs out of the question?
So, what to do? We're all living in a bastardized version of Dickens' Christmas Carol where we get to see what the holidays are like when stripped of their essence. I figure we can muddle through this one, knowing that the vaccinated holiday season of 2021 is going to be spectacular. Jane Macdougall is a freelance writer and former National Post columnist who lives in Vancouver. Her garden is her major distraction during COVID-19. She will be writing on The Bookless Club every Saturday online and in The Vancouver Sun.
The Sun Ray Colouring Contest was my first “golden moment.” In 1955, my parents cut out a small drawing of Santa from The Vancouver Sun and left it on the kitchen table overnight. I found it early the next morning and coloured it just for fun (unaware of the contest) while my parents slept in. Unbeknownst to me, my mom must have mailed it in, and within days we heard I had won! I was invited downtown to The Sun office, awarded a 24-inch Pinocchio doll, and my photo with Pinocchio and a brief story appeared in the paper. I was quoted as being thrilled to receive “My first boy doll!” Sandra Hartley
It was the Kiwanis Music Festival for schools in the mid-1970s at Kerrisdale Arena, Vancouver.
I had left to take a sick child home and when I entered the arena upon my return, several high school choirs were singing together for the first time (with one brave conductor in the centre), “Let There Be Peace On Earth, And Let It Begin With Me.” It was beautiful, magnificent, and I stood in the doorway with tears streaming down my face. I remember thinking that those children had the future of us all in their hands. The ones I still know from that day (including my own) have all grown up to be fine citizens and still hope for “Peace on Earth.”
Ann Ligertwood
My dad always loved poetry and would recite it to us as kids instead of a bedtime story. A simple man who grew up in the lumber camps of northern Ontario, he had a gift for it. When my sister and brother treated him to his one-and-only trip off of our continent, they took him to Ireland. One night in a small town pub after a day of hiking, he started reciting a poem after a beer or two. The entire pub hushed and everyone listened to his tale of loss and joy from one of his favourite epic poems. When he was done, they all quietly raised a beer to him.
Deni Loubert
As I started reading your column, I was immediately transported to our own spontaneous group sing. I was having dinner with a bunch of girlfriends at Yellowpoint Lodge on our yearly getaway. There was a stranger at our table and we asked him where he was from and he replied. “West Virginia.” So, of course, Dixie and I started singing “Country Roads” and the whole dining room chimed in. Imagine my surprise when I read the rest of your column and found out your New York song was the same. Definitely an endorphin rush. John Denver would be proud.