A Final Nod to the Ghost of Christmas Past

Standing in the grocery store checkout line just before Christmas, I couldn't stop my hand reaching out and grabbing a can of cashews to place into my cart.



Dad wasn't much of a shopper. In fact, he may have been the only person on the planet who is worse at it than I am. But for many Christmases in the eighties and nineties, he made sure that there was a can of cashews under the tree for me. I'm not sure when it started and stopped as dementia may have prevented him from continuing the tradition in his last few years. Perhaps Mom covered for him then; I simply don't remember.

His last Christmas with us, and I use the word, with, very loosely, was eleven years ago, and if I was ever gifted with the traditional tin of cashews since, I certainly don't remember: not after Mom's last Christmas seven years ago, for sure.

I had really forgotten all about it, but this year, my memory was triggered whilst standing in the checkout line, and I reached for both the can and the memory. It's just a small thing, a very small thing, but it warms me somehow.

Note: This should be my final Christmas Memory post for this year, which I think is the rather remarkable fourth post about my reveries. Thinking about the past is, undoubtedly, a sign of my own aging, although I hope it's a long while before I really consider myself old. I also hope that more memories will surface next year. Actually, I already have one in mind; I was going to post it this year but didn't get around to it, and it's past time to move on.

PS: After playing on the word, hooking, in the last post, think of what I could have done with this one. But I resisted. Aren't you proud of me?

I was Once a Hooker ...

... and I think I was Happy enough whilst doing it.

I wanted to reminisce about hooking this Christmas stocking earlier, but it was stored at Thesha's, and I was unable to retrieve it to take a picture. So, when it came out of hiding on Christmas Eve, a miracle occurred (as befits the season), and I managed to remember to snap a photo. As best as we can reconstruct the past, I would have hooked this item in the mid-eighties, so it is the best part of twenty-five years old. It is hooking too, as in rug hooking and not as in knitting.



Thesha, our oldest, received a kit in late childhood or very early adolescence, and made a very nice stocking for herself. She followed this us with one for her younger sister, Althegal, although, if memory serves, it was Mom who finished it. Next year, we think that Mom bought a second kit and hooked a stocking for me. Come one more December, memory tells me that I didn't want Cuppa to be left out, so I took up the cause and laboured on a stocking for her. I can remember sitting in our brown reclining chair in the family room by the side door and hooking happily.

My stocking and Cuppa's follow the exact same pattern, but we both free-styled at the top where the pattern simply called for plain white. Although I certainly didn't mind the exercise, I must confess that everyone in the family has since renounced hooking. I mean, it was fun while it lasted, but hooking is not something that you want to make your life's work. At least we didn't.

A Short Story Made Long

That dadblasted Jinksy just had to post about her memory of Christmas Trees, and that got me into exploring my own memories. In the exhumation process, I thought, "I'll bet we have old pictures that I could post." That, my friends, caused me a few hours work: searching, scanning and fixing (a little) old photos. So, rather than a ten minute piece of prose, it became a project of several hours duration. It's okay, though, as I, bit by tiny bit, endeavour to add old photos to my what I call my heritage folder.

I suspect the following picture dates to 1956, but it is possible that I could be a year out on either side. Most of the tree is visible along with my maternal grandfather and my uncle (his son) in the frame. Grampa is holding the hockey stick that I must have received earlier that Christmas Day as I sit cross-legged on the floor. I had forgotten all about that print hanging on the wall. I liked it, but I don't think it came with us when we moved to Ontario in 1962.


The next picture is obviously from the same Christmas, but includes my father. The tree, looks a little sparse and uneven, so you'd think it must be real, and you'd be correct. I doubt that artificial trees existed in 1956, and if so, they'd probably have been a lot more expensive than a real tree. In fact, I don't recall my parents ever using an artificial tree until they toned Christmas down a little later in life and decided that a little, artificial one would do just fine. That decision took place after another big move. Oddly enough, Cuppa and I decided that a little tree would suit us just fine after our big move a few years ago.




In the photo (still the one above), the construction set that I remember has been erected to my right (your left). I had recently described it to Cuppa, and, voila, there it is. In the photo below, it is 1958, and I am older. I think I was quite taken with the my wave, but somebody should have told me that it didn't suit me so well: too much forehead there. Maybe I was channeling Elvis.


However, I'm supposed to be talking about Christmas Trees, and I'm being diverted by other things that I am seeing in the photos So, let's talk about trees. Aside from the fact that they were real, which I have already mentioned, I have one specific memory of actually getting a tree and bringing it home. It's just an ordinary memory, nothing special, except to me for some reason.

It was in the evening, possibly when I was ten, the age of the above photo. I remember walking a few blocks with Dad to a corner lot one evening. I presume it was after supper because he'd have been pretty ready for a meal after walking home after a full day of being on his feet at work. Maybe I remember because the guy who sold us the tree had a funny voice. I think he'd had an operation and been given some sort of mechanical device to help him speak. My father was very polite and gave no indication of anything unusual, but either he or I mentioned it on the walk home.

I don't remember that walk home, but I do know that we took the tree up the backstairs to our second-story flat. We would have left the tree outside to settle for a few days before bringing inside to decorate. The next photo is the 1960 tree with my Dad and Uncle Charlie ...





... and here's my best friend, Nelson, by the same tree. (Nelson and I reconnected ten years ago. I wonder if her still reads this blog? He did for a long time but never chose to comment.)



Finally, here's one with of mother decorating the 1961 tree, the last tree before moving from Montreal in 1962.



At some point in time, I became the main decorator. At least I was for one year. In the year that I am remembering, I was an older teenager and was put in charge of decorating the tree one Saturday when both my parents were at work. I had mentioned this to a girl friend (but not girlfriend) the previous day, and she offered to help. This was not to be permitted, however, because it was thought that nature might take its course with no adult to chaperon. Given the times, it was probably the correct decision but most likely unnecessary as I was not really attracted to this girl, and I never had any indication that she was attracted to me. However, I guess you never know.

Finally (PTL, eh?), to wrap up the narrative, Cuppa and I soon started to use artificial trees after we were married. Since, we always drove back home for Christmas, it was seemed only sensible thing to put up an artificial tree early in the month and also not have to worry about watering it while we were away.

I think I have a way of making a short story long — but only when I write, not when I speak.

A Christmas Memory

Thinking about Christmas music, as I have been, recently, this memory surfaced. I retrieved this photo from my boyhood album and am endeavouring to piece together the story from my fragmentary memory as best I can.



One Sunday morning in Novemeber of 1963, Sunday School teacher, Norm Butler, informed his class of truculent and recalcitrant sixteen year-old boys that the group was to present a piece in the Young Peoples Christmas program. He passed around a passage, an audition of sorts, for us all to read, and I flubbed my reading rather badly. Notwithstanding, he informed the class that he was choosing me to perform the reading. He said that I had been nervous during the audition but that I had a good speaking voice.

Now I wonder whether I wasn't, in point of fact, the least awful choice out of a group of miserable teenage boys. It was a tough group that, apparently later worked to get Norm tossed as our teacher. I didn't know about it at the time, but we soon had a new teacher, and I found out later that some sort of rebellion had transpired. Poor Norm; he was a good man trying his best with a bad group; almost anybody would have has a tough time with that group.

I don't know why but I never thought to renege from the task that I had been given. I wasn't exactly a good church boy at that time, but I went along with it and performed my reading about Silent Night and how that carol came in to being. It was Norm who took that photo of young AC rehearsing the reading.

I read my piece, went home and thought no more of it, but come the next Sunday received some praise from Norm who said the he and others of the audience thought that my reading was the highlight of the evening. While I still feel a little warm over that bit of praise, I am also realistic enough to realize that being the highlight of what was, doubtless, a very amateurish evening of poor performances was not a exactly a monumental accomplishment.

Wow! I just remembered something that I had long forgotten about that night. My class friend, Al Bowen, played Silent Night on his trombone after my reading. He was the other, not too-evil-boy in that class. Al went on to become a well known, devout pastor in Toronto, while I went on to obscurity and agnosticism. How's that for diverging paths?

There are several versions of how Silent Night came into being, but I think I can remember almost verbatim one line from my two-page reading. Apparently, on Christmas Eve, "the organist of the church, Franz Gruber, made an alarming discovery. The organ would not play." My piece went on to say that the Silent Night was composed as a song that could easily be sung sans organ accompaniment. While those exact facts are certainly in dispute, at least the broad strokes are more or less correct. Following is some of what Wikipedia has to say.

On December 24, 1818 Joseph Mohr journeyed to the home of musician-schoolteacher Franz Gruber who lived in an apartment over the schoolhouse in nearby Arnsdorf. He showed his friend the poem and asked him to add a melody and guitar accompaniment so that it could be sung at Midnight Mass. His reason for wanting the new carol is unknown. Some speculate that the organ would not work; others feel that the assistant pastor, who dearly loved guitar music, merely wanted a new carol for Christmas.

Later that evening, as the two men, backed by the choir, stood in front of the main altar in St. Nicholas Church and sang "Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!" for the first time, they could hardly imagine the impact their composition would have on the world.

Karl Mauracher, a master organ builder and repairman from the Ziller Valley, traveled to Oberndorf to work on the organ, several times in subsequent years. While doing his work in St. Nicholas, he obtained a copy of the composition and took it home with him. Thus, the simple carol, began its journey around the world as a "Tyrolean Folk Song."

See Wikipedia for the full story.

What pleases me most about this memory is that a young AC was there in a small way for poor, beleaguered Norm Butler that night. The adult me, who became a teacher, feels bad for whatever he endured as a teacher of that class.

Dad's Last Christmas

As the Yuletide season winds down and begins to fade into memory, I think of another memory from another Christmas: Christmas Past but not too far past — just ten years past.

My dad was in the hospital and not doing well, but Cuppa was determined to bring him home for Christmas. It was also my wish to have him home, just for the afternoon, but my mother was against the idea, so I didn't quite know what to do. Partly, she was afraid of him kicking up a great fuss about going back into the hospital in the evening. And it would also be difficult to have him home, even for a short time, for he couldn't walk anymore, not on his own steam. He could bear some weight but for either mental or physical reasons (I'm still not sure which), he couldn't seem to support himself or at least he couldn't ambulate. Nevertheless, Cuppa's will prevailed, and I'm glad it did, for due to the whole strange scenario (which I'm not going to go into here and now) of how he ended up in the hospital in the first place, I was in a state of perplexed ditherdness in those days.

In short, we got him home, and it went quite well. He had a bit of turkey, plucked up a bit of his old-time humour, even in his demented sate, and I felt a lot better about doing this little thing for him whether he was terribly cognizant or not. I think he enjoyed himself in his own way even though he would have forgotten about it almost immediately.

That was his last Christmas. He slipped very quickly after that day, and a few weeks later he mercifully left both us and his misery behind.

Christmas 1998
Dad's Last Two Photos