6 minute read
Down on the Farm
by Jackie Moad
The Giving Season
“What if Christmas doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas ... perhaps ... means a little bit more!””
— The Grinch, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, Dr. Seuss, 1957
December … synonymous with Christmas for me. So, a couple of weeks ago, I started asking some friends about their happiest recollections of this festive season, and every time someone would hark back to a special moment, it set off another lightbulb in the ol’ brainola. Gotta tell some tales. Sheesh, I could write a book!
Family was the common thread to my friends’ memories of Christmas. Me too. But more specifically, it centred around one of my favourite four-letter words (besides “free”): FOOD. Even to this day, when I smell turkey, I smell Christmas. That’s probably because the last thing my mom would do before going to bed on Christmas Eve (more like early morning) was to stuff the turkey and put it in the oven. When I awoke, the aroma hit me like a ton of bricks.
In any of the various homes we lived in, I don’t ever recall having a fireplace or mantle to hang our stockings on, so they were at the bottom of our beds. I think this was a devious plan hatched by my parents. That stocking kept us busy, giving them at least another hour of sleep time. An apple, a tangerine, some nuts, and some Christmas candy (usually candy “ribbon”). Then my sisters and I (and later my baby brother) would cajole my parents to wake up and get crackin’. I was the lucky one for about seven years. Being the youngest, I got to go down the stairs first and spy the lit tree simply buried in presents.
The tree. Although we never chopped down our own tree, Dad always brought home a magnificent specimen. Everyone I spoke with said the same thing: there was a ritual to preparing a Christmas tree. We got ours the second week in December. Dad would put it in a pot and create a sturdy base, because that tree would have to survive through the season without needles flying off it. It was watered every morning. And the smell – the smell of a fir tree or a pine tree to this day takes me right back to the Ho-Ho-Ho season.
When the tree was in place, the whole family got to decorating, but there was an organized system. First, the lights. Dad would string them with Mom’s supervision, and the dead bulbs were replaced. Second came the décor. We’d spend hours before decorating making popcorn strings, paper chains and paper angel garlands. They went on first, then the glass balls. The best ones were from Germany – so ornate. And lastly, the tinsel. Every year, we’d ask if we could just throw a bunch on. We thought it would be fun. The answer was no – one strand at a time. My first Christmas away from home, though, I did throw the tinsel on with abandon. It looked horrible.
The presents. Well, because there were three of us girls so close in age, my parents would endeavour to give us similar toys, clothes and gifts in general. It almost never worked, except for the Easy-Bake Ovens and the three-foot Patti Playpal dolls – now they were a hit. About 65 years later, I spied a doll at the thrift store and snatched it up real quick. (Her name is Rickie and I’m often told how she really creeps people out!)
But my mom’s homemade presents were special. She had been a seamstress for a fur coat company (made her own coat out of small scraps of fur too). Mom would always make a snazzy outfit for each of us and hang it on the tree that magical morning. “But I wanted the blue one” – pout, pout. Today, we laugh about my mom’s classic response: “Next year, it will be different. You’ll all get an envelope pinned on the tree with a cheque inside, and you can get what you want.” Of course, that never happened. There was one year that really stands out in my warm memory bank. It had nothing to do with me, me only me. Mom had always wanted a chandelier, but moving from army posting to posting sort of put a damper on that dream of hers. When we moved to our final place in London, Ontario, my sweet dad surprised her one Christmas.
After they had stuffed the stockings, wrapped up all the presents and Mom had the turkey going, they went to bed. When Dad knew that Mom was asleep, he got up, brought out the hidden gift and started painstakingly constructing the crystal chandelier. He replaced the simple switch on the wall with a dimmer switch, removed the old fixture and hung the chandelier. Just as he was about to finish, it became unhinged and fell with a crash onto the table. As it happened, I was the only one who heard the crash and momentarily thought, “Wow, Santa’s on the roof?” But I was a young teenager by then and figured it was just a dream! Amazingly, no crystals broke. Dad finished the job and probably got at least two hours of sleep before the morning ritual.
Mom didn’t notice the chandelier until she tried to switch on the dining room light, and it was a dimmer switch instead. She instinctively looked up and started to cry. So did I. I think Sandy and Sharon did too. Years later, when selling the family home, I got that chandelier. It’s in my living room – a daily reminder of true love and happy family times. They say you can never go back … but it sure feels good to remember, especially at Christmas.
Jackie Moad’s season’s greetings to all the TAKE 5 readers – warmth, health and happiness throughout this season and all the very best for an excellent new year … from her 20-acre organic slice of Paradise in Cedar, where she continues to farm and create new memories.
