I’m feeling particularly nostalgic this time of year, as my mother passed away at the end of October. She left behind a lot of magical memories, hers and mine, that I draw on for my writing.
Christmas Story at Church of the Holy Trinity, Toronto
When I was a child, on Ukrainian Christmas Eve (Jan.6th on the Julian calendar), I wouldn’t eat all day, as was our family’s custom, until the first star came out. We knew then that Christ had arrived, and we could celebrate with a feast of twelve meatless dishes. Later, carollers would come from the church and sing at our home. Afterwards, we’d give them a shot of whiskey and some food to keep them warm as they carried on with their carolling to other homes in cold Winnipeg.
But one of my favourite memories has to do with Santa.
It was 1948, and I was five at the time. It was Christmas Eve and I had my nose pressed against the window pane looking out at the snow covered streets and waiting for my father to come home with a tree. When he came home without one—as he’d stopped off at the beer parlour after work for a few drinks—my mother sent him back out again. It turned out that all the Christmas tree lots had closed by then. Ashamed that his daughter wouldn’t have a tree, he did something completely out of character. He jumped over the fence and stole one. A policeman happened to be walking by and my father had to do some quick explaining. He told the officer he had every intention of returning to pay when the lot was open again. I assume the cop recognized an honest face and let my father go. That night, my mother and I stayed up until 4 a.m. decorating that tree. Mom had saved silver cigarette wrappers she’d found in the street gutters and we used them to wrap nuts to hang on the tree. We also hung little pink plastic baskets filled with multi-coloured Christmas candies and some glass ornaments. Mom also made snow out of Ivory soap crystals that we spread on the branches. The final touches were tinsel and for the top, a foil covered cardboard star. Although I was tired by the end, I decided to keep my eyes open so I could get a glimpse of Santa. But try as I might, my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate and I missed that fine, generous gentleman.
I’ve never forgotten that Christmas. I don’t remember the presents, but I remember that night. It was magical.
Not to forget, somewhere in all that Christmas rush out there is another child’s wide eyes, excited by what’s coming. Christ and Santa rival one another for attention, but what would Christmas be without these larger than life figures, each promising love, each asking us to believe?
It’s the time of year when families everywhere can build precious memories. It could be decorating sugar cookies, watching It’s A Wonderful Life, or singing Christmas carols.
Our magical moments include: singing carols together, ending with a soulful Silent Night on Christmas Eve, emptying our stockings in the morning, and later, watching Scrooge with Albert Finney, after a hearty turkey dinner with all the fixings. What are your traditions? What memories come up for you at this time of year?
Whether you celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah, I’m wishing you and your families magical moments, ones that will last a lifetime.
Merry Christmas Diana. Beautiful article on a beautiful day
Bless Christmas and best wishes new year to you! This article about magical christmas is great!!!