It didn’t
matter how much money my parents had when I was growing up, somehow they
managed to pull off Christmas after Christmas. With all due respect to my
father, it was my mother who did all the grunt work. She was probably overwhelmed
by the sheer number of children requiring her attention. I cannot imagine just
how she grappled with five ingrates, all pining for a special Christmas morn.
As if out of thin air, no one was disappointed, including the old man. There
was something quite magical about jumping downstairs and seeing the glory of
our Christmas tree. It was literally surrounded by gift after gift, carefully
placed in military order. I cannot recall a holiday that didn’t hold such
splendour, even if the splendour was occasionally downsized. Christmas morning
was its own reward. I do not recollect even one that didn’t hold the same
wonder as the season before. I understand now that there was never a lot of
money, so how she did it each and every year is beyond me. All I know is what I
remember and I remember much love. Nothing could stand in the way, nothing.
With all the presents unwrapped and coveted, my mother set out to conquer the
feast. With six other souls to gratify, she was always up to the challenge. The
dinner was a masterpiece, just like every other time. Perhaps I am biased in my
recall but I really cannot find a childhood yuletide memory that holds anything
but wonder, and glee, and a sense of something holy underneath it all.
Christmas sure is different with my mother gone. Yes, it holds certain moments
but things just aren’t the same. Our tree holds many presents. The table holds
the feast. The sense of belonging and family, so prevalent as I grew up, is met
with loved ones near and far. There is still an emptiness, a hallow space that
can never be filled. I long to unwrap presents with her. I long for the taste
of her stuffing but not her devilled eggs. I guess I miss my mom and nothing
will ever return to how it was. This will be my eighth Christmas without her,
the eighth year of my sorrow. I long for the days of old. Just for a second, I would
love to experience her Christmas Spirit.
My first
partner and I had a lovely tree each Christmas. Glass bulbs, a Victorian style
angel and coloured lights came together in a manner reminiscent of my experience
as a child at Christmastime. It was a pretty thing, always fresh cut at a tree
farm. I can still smell the needles, I pine for it. One of my biggest Christmas
regrets is giving away all our Christmas decorations after he died. Even that
blue velour angel was given up to grief, and abandon, and hopelessness. I
wouldn’t need them where I was going so I handed them out like presents on
Christmas morn. I would do anything to retrieve them from the anguish of my past.
That first year I thought, as the season approached, that those whom I bestowed
such heirlooms upon would cherish them like I did. I was wrong. Not one person
that I know of knows where they are or what happened to them. The angel left me
over a decade ago when its bearer disappeared like January snow. I will never
see it again. The rest must be lost to time. As a matter of fact, I have very
little decorations from that time. A few here and there will have to be
reminder enough. Over three times as many Christmases have gone by than the
time we were together. I have known more Christmas Days without him then I ever
had with him. Doug was a quiet man, gentle and somewhat timid. He stood 6’2” and
was built like a brick shithouse. I can still see him so clearly in my mind. I
can hear him and even smell him. Time has guaranteed that I miss him in an
unfamiliar way. There is little left for me to cling to. We never spent
Christmas morning together, not once. On the night before, we both headed home
to celebrate with our families. Our yuletide exchange was on Christmas Eve
morning, long before it was time for the both of us to head home. I still have
every gift he ever gave me. I also have his wallet, his workout clothes and I
even have a large clip of his hair. I would trade them all just to know he was
okay. As Christmas approaches, I journey to his resting place and leave my
standard seasonal fare. Standing around a headstone is never quite as rewarding
as sitting around a tree opening up presents. It is so hard, in light of this
reality, to ascertain any form of Christmas Spirit but I try to find it anyway.
“Christmas is the
time of year
For being with the
ones we love
Sharing so much joy
and cheer
What a wonderful
feelin’
Watching the ones we
love
Having so much fun
I was sittin’ by the
fire side
Taking a walk through
the snow
Listening to a
children’s choir
Singing songs about
Jesus and
The blessed way that He
came to us
Why can’t it remain
All through the year
Each day the same
It’s truly amazin’
That spirit of
Christmas”
My
Christmas history is not just made up of the melancholy. There is great joy
that I continue to find as Christmas approaches. The anticipation comes just as
it did when I was a kid. Despite the conflict I now have with the religious
side of the season, the tactile experience is one I still love to have. Unlike
most men, I love Christmas shopping. I usually begin on Christmas in July, the
25th day of that month. I start my lists. I start my looking. I even
buy a gift here and there. Slowly but surely, as the months go on, that Spirit of
Christmas always finds me. No matter my misery, no matter my state, Christmas
comes alive in me exactly as it did when I was a boy. I just can’t help it. I
am like Scrooge come Christmas morn. It may even be a possession, a spirit
taking control. It’s a wonderful feeling. Christmas is also aesthetically
pleasing. The window scenes, all the Christmas trees and so many pretty lights
always take me back to my first memories of my Christmas past. I remember it in
bits and pieces but it is strong in my mind and strong in my soul. I can only
see the tree before me. I don’t remember the presents. I don’t remember the
people. All I remember is that sense of awe inside me as I sat there staring at
my first Christmas tree. I was overjoyed, but that’s about as much as I am able
to recall. It is enough for me. I have so much else to remember. Every year,
without fail, I am haunted once again. There stands my mother making lemon
cupcakes with icing sugar sprinkles. She is young, she is happy. There goes my
father, thinking he was too tall to need a chair to reach the star. All my
brothers and my sister are young again, legs crossed and waiting for their turn
at opening a present. It is warm and it is heartening. These memories comfort
me in a world full of pain. As the season comes round again, I am enchanted in
a way. I have much to be thankful for and much in my life to treasure. I still hold
dear to my thoughts, of celebrating with my family and the Spirit of Christmas
that has always remained.
“All the kin folk
gather round
The lovely Christmas
tree
Hearts are glowing
full of joy
Sense the gifts that
we’re giving
And the love that
we’re living
Why can’t it remain
All through the year
Each day the same
That’s what I wanna
hear
I’ll tell you
It’s truly amazin
That Spirit of
Christmas”
(That Spirit Of Christmas, Ray Charles 1985)
For the six
year period that we lived in Kitchener
Ontario Lynden , Ontario is
approximately 21 kilometres from where we reside in Paris , Ontario Kitchener ,
we had visited the place many times and had grown accustomed to it. Our return
saw little that had changed. The location is quaint and cheery, with a Rockwell
look and a countryside feel. We discovered the place back in 2006, when we
started hunting for an alternative spot. We had grown dissatisfied with the
local venues. For the price of the trees, they were just not good enough. My
partner had Googled a random search, and we headed out to our breakthrough. On
December 2nd, 2006, we dressed for the weather and went out into the
sun. It was a cold but not so frigid day. I was glad I decided to bring along
some gloves. We spent over an hour walking up and down the rows of trees,
stopping to examine any one that stood out in either of our minds. The farm itself
is expansive. The 176 acre lot is almost completely covered by Christmas trees.
Spruce, Blue Spruce, Pine and Douglas Fir all mingle in row after row after
row. In the summer, and at Halloween, we partake with others and we play
nicely. We engage with family and friends. When it comes to cutting down a
tree, we play alone. Ben holds the trunk while I crawl under the thing and saw
it down. We drag it back to the truck that we borrow from Ben’s father. It sits
outside for a day, dripping what is left of its life onto the wooden deck out back
of our home. Come the morrow, we will decorate and celebrate and make merry. A
real tree always brings out one’s Christmas Spirit.
After nineteen years together,
we have an awful lot of Christmas stuff. Over 20 large boxes of yuletide rest
in the basement, stacked upon each other like dominos. Come November and
unpacking them is a chore. It takes weeks to set it all up. We start with the
tree then we move on to decorating around it. It looks like Santa puked once
all the details find their place. There are so many boxes and so much stuff
that it can be overwhelming trying to sort it all out. I am good for that. I
try to imagine all those boxed up decorations are more like baggage than for
beautification. Like life, each one needs attention or you’ll never know what
is inside. Ever year, I discover a different message buried in all that
stuffing and cardboard. You have to try to make some sense of it all. The metaphor holds great meaning for me.
Every year, we add new content while sorting through anything broken that needs
to be removed. The seasons change and people change and so too does Christmas. Traditions
aside, there is always something new to discover, something new to create. Given
half the chance, you can feel it, you can actually feel it. There is Christmas
in the air. The magic of a Christmas tree, or a get together, or a walk on a
snowy evening, all manage to inspire the hungry soul who is seeking that Spirit
of Christmas.
Photo
Christmas Day
1973
Christmastime
2016
Christmas
2015
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