THE BACK FORTY

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So, This is Christmas…

Story & Photos By Lee McLean

THIS SEASON IS RICH IN

MEMORIES! I’m thinking of one Christmas Eve, when truck and trailer lights swept down the snowy lane with the arrival of old Cody, a gift from our soon-to-be son-in-law. It was 27 below but I hopped on for a bareback ride, anyway… I recall setting up Uncle Jack’s antique train set and how, as it circled the tree, Mike and Kitty would be jostling for a good seat up front. He, to blow the tin whistle each time the train passed by, the old calico cat, just to gaze in wonder. Last year marked her 17th – and final – tree…

Hanging the lovely angel (the one with the really big feet) from the dining room chandelier… Remembering one year when our house was so small and cramped that the toddler, sitting in her high chair, pulled the Christmas tree into the gravy on the stove and started a fire… Real pine boughs nailed below every window, old musical instruments nestled among them and me, constantly pacing the halls armed with Ardox spikes and No. 9 wire, to Mike’s annual chagrin…

Singalongs with unpracticed fingers on the piano and how nobody ever knows the words to God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen but we sing loudly, nonetheless… The reality of constant chaos and the fact that despite vowing otherwise, you’ve gone and gained seven pounds…

Donning pearls and velvet and our warmest chore boots to attend the lovely country church of St. Aidan’s. The rising smell of the barnyard as we warm up, the neighbour lady pumping away at the wheezy old organ, while we protect our candles from draughts and all-together-now sing, Silent Night… Pulling out box after box from the creepy attic, finding a spot on the mantle for the 1930s nativity scene, reuniting the main players with their broken-off heads. I love how the wisest of the men always looks as though he needs a Pepto-Bismol and that baby Jesus is large enough to captain the high school football team. It’s no wonder Mary needs no urging to “Fall On Her Knees…”

There’s hockey on the creek and always, a collie dog that runs off with the puck, “Shep! Shep! That’ll do!”… Taking time from preparing the feast to trudge out to the horses and give the old-timers their Christmas apples… Men, cracking nuts and bad jokes, sharpening the old bone handled carving set… The turkey, smelling rich, bowls and silver spoons and family linens gracing the table, gleaming in the candle light… Dear faces finally gathered, rosy-cheeked after rushing through all the cold and windblown chores…

So, this is Christmas. WHR