Classic Christmas Stories

by Frank Galgay

  Soon now the joy bells will ring out to announce that Midnight Mass is about to begin. There is a note of sadness in that joyful clamour and old grief’s long buried but never quite forgotten stir into life.

  I look back at that Christmas Eve of my childhood and it is like watching a miniature scene set in a crystal globe full of falling snow. The snowflakes settle and there we are, together again, untouched by sorrow and undimmed by time. The Holy Infant still lies on his bed of yellow straw as we kneel before him to celebrate the hour and the moment when the Lamb of God came down from heaven to take away the sins of the world.

  A Bouquet of Christmas Memories

  by Helen Fogwill Porter

  WHEN WE HANG OUR wreaths and festoons in preparation for Christmas, the most important one of all is not visible to the eye. Yet all of us have one such bouquet, unique to ourselves. The flowers may be old and faded, but they are none the less precious on that account. I’m talking about our bouquet of Christmas memories.

  All of our different bouquets have many features in common. Everybody thinks of the turkey, the tree, the stockings, the presents, the carols. But I want to talk about the individual family memories which mean little to outsiders. They all help to make Christmas the warm, happy family day it is. As I share my own memories with you I hope it will help you to make up your own private bouquet of half-forgotten family joys.

  At our house Christmas always seemed to start when the first little boy arrived on our doorstep with his box of rather grimy Christmas cards. These he sold on commission from a local wholesale business, and sometimes he had a selection of inexpensive toys as well. Each boy who took on this yearly job felt sure that he would make his fortune but the sad truth was that, long before the time came for him to turn over the money to the proprietor, a large proportion of it would be spent on candy and ice-cream. Then it was Mom and Dad to the rescue, not without a threat that they would not cover his deficit next year. But next year was always a long way off.

  Anyone who has ever gone to Sunday School will know the thrill and excitement that comes with preparation for the Christmas concert. Practices usually began in November and by the middle of December teachers and parents alike were convinced that this year’s program would be a complete failure. But when White Gift Sunday rolled around the fragrant smell of evergreen hung in the air, the children behaved as angelically as they were attired and everything went off very well. By the time the last sack of flour had been piled on top of the white gift display to the strains of “As With Gladness Men of Old” everyone in the church glowed with the feeling that it had all been worthwhile. The White Gifts have lately been replaced by small white envelopes in which each child places a sum of money. No doubt the authorities have found that financial gifts are more practical than various food items. However, I don’t think we’ll ever recapture the feeling of exultation we all shared as we brought our white-wrapped gift of raisins, butter or sugar to the front of the church. We really felt that we were sharing in somebody else’s Christmas, and making it perhaps a little happier.

  If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget the time my sister and I came close to spoiling the Christmas concert at our church. That particular year teachers had selected a fairly ambitious pageant as the main item of the program and my sister and I were given the lengthy speaking parts. For some reason it was decided that the program would be presented on Sunday night instead of the usual Sunday afternoon affair. Rehearsals were held, angels’ wings fashioned and all seemed to be progressing very well. On the afternoon of White Gift Sunday the two of us were lolling around the house, our hair tightly curled in rags, when the telephone rang. It was the minister’s daughter and her worried voice almost stupefied me when she said “Aren’t you coming out to the Church?” It seemed that somewhere along the line it had been decided to hold an afternoon immediately and we were more than two miles from the church. One of the male teachers came for us in his car, arriving before Mother had finished brushing out our barely-curled hair. We were hauled into the church and pushed into our costumes in less time than it takes to tell it. If our cheeks and eye were unnaturally bright the audience probably put it down to the general excitement of Christmas. We managed to remember our lines and the pageant was quite a success.

  House-cleaning has always been a prelude to Christmas in Newfoundland, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world. My mother always had hers done in good time, her mouth-watering cakes were ready weeks ahead of time and even her pudding was made days in advance of Christmas. But my father has always been a different proposition. He answered mother’s pleas to “please paint the bedroom ceiling” or “When are you going to put down the linoleum in the hall?” with the happy-go-lucky statement “There is plenty of time.” And so the days passed while he chuckled over a good book or pounded out an intricately worded letter on his typewriter. But, as the big day drew nearer, he always started to feel a little uncomfortable about the state of the house and he fell to work with vigour. The only drawback was that there just wasn’t enough time for him to get all the jobs done. Somehow, Christmas Eve always came before the stairs were varnished. Perhaps that’s why my brothers and sisters and I always claim that the smell of fresh varnish makes us nostalgic for the Christmas Eves of long ago. For, when we finally made our way to bed, breathless with excitement at the prospect of the next day’s treasures, there would be weary Dad, admonishing us not to walk off the stair treads or touch the rail. The shining perfection of the stairway, still gleaming in its wetness, holds just as important a place in my bouquet of memories as the glittering tree or the annual baby doll.

  Speaking of dolls, is any little girl’s Christmas complete without one? I had received a daintily dressed, curly-haired doll every year up to the time I was eleven years old and that year, shortly before Christmas I decreed that I didn’t want a doll this year. Most of my school friends were getting wrist-watches, and I felt that the possession of one would be the ultimate in glamour. In the back of my mind there lurked a sneaking suspicion that I might get both items, but I was afraid to suggest it. Well, on Christmas Eve the presents came down from my grandmother, who lived just up the road. We were always allowed to open her gifts on Christmas Eve, partly because our parents were as anxious to see them as we were. As soon as I saw the small, flat box with my name on it I knew I had my watch, but my heart felt curiously heavy. I put it down without even opening it and watched my five-year-old sister excitedly tearing the wrappings off her big baby doll. I can see it now, golden-haired and beautiful, in a lovely dress and bonnet of blue organdy. Without warning I burst into tears. I was heartily ashamed of myself but I couldn’t seem to stop. My parents seemed to know what the trouble was but they said nothing. When my father tucked me in bed that night he bent close to my ear and said “Pray hard for a doll like Margie’s and you don’t know what might happen.” I did just that and the next morning I awoke to find a doll exactly like my sister’s except that it was dressed in pink. To this day I can’t be sure where the doll came from, but I expect frantic conniving on my parents’ part. Luckily for me, at that time the stores were open quite late on Christmas Eve.

  At our house even more energy and effort were expended in preparing for New Year’s Day than for Christmas Day. We children found it rather an anticlimax after Christmas although we always clamoured to be allowed to stay up until twelve o’clock on New Year’s Eve to “see the New Year in.” But for our grown-ups, New Year’s Day was The Day. For it was the one day in all the year when two very important relatives came to dinner. They were my great-aunt and an even older lady whose relationship to us was rather hazy. They always arrived in mid-morning, had dinner with us and departed at about four o’clock in the afternoon to have supper with our cousins down the road.

  On New Year’s Eve preparations were frantic and furious. The whole house had to be cleaned again, a new stock of delicacies made and there was also the giant turkey to prepare. The two old ladies held decided views on the
consumption of alcoholic liquors, and the men of the house were admonished to sweeten their breaths and stay away from the stuff while our two elderly relatives were present. The older of the two claimed that tobacco smoke makes her sick, so the pipes, cigars and cigarettes were carefully hidden away with the bottles.

  After dinner, while the women were cleaning up, it fell to the lot of us youngsters to entertain the two visitors. Our great-aunt was a lover of games (not cards, of course, but brainy games like anagrams). One of us would challenge her to a contest of some kind and the rest of us would be left to entertain the even more ancient lady who always proclaimed proudly that she “had never played a game in her life.” She was very deaf and, to save our throats we usually let her do most of the talking. This was not difficult, for in her day she had been a great Sunday-School worker and she enjoyed telling us of past glory and quoting temperance rhymes she had composed. It was hard to maintain an expression of intense interest in her conversation, for we had heard all her stories many times before. Then, too, my young brothers were very skillful at making us laugh while keeping dead-serious faces themselves. I look back on New Year’s afternoon as being the longest one in the year.

  After we had finally seen the two visitors off late in the afternoon, the house began to hum. My uncle dived for the “drop o’ stuff, ” my grandfather dug out the tobacco and my father hurried to the kitchen for a fresh supply of glasses. By this time, Mother and my aunt had collapsed on their beds in a state of complete exhaustion. I’ll never forget the dreadful day when just as the three men were sitting around the table with glasses raised, the room thick with smoke, the door opened and my great-aunt came back for the glove she had forgotten.

  Three jaws dropped when she came into the room, and it’s a lucky thing the glasses didn’t as well, for they were our best ones. Everybody started to talk at once but the old lady saved the situation by saying, with a twinkle in her frosty blue eyes “You might offer me one, boys.” We always considered it fortunate that the other aged relative had stayed behind at my cousins’ house. It would have been too sad for her to find that her years of quoting temperance poetry had had so little effect on the men of our family.

  Of course, all our memories are not happy ones. I think of Christmas during the war, when black-out curtains hid gay Christmas lights and sad news from overseas dampened the brightest spirits. There was one Christmas Day when my sailor cousin, who had lived with us, was missing, and although we all tried to maintain a cheerful demeanour, the atmosphere was strained and tense. In fact, we were all glad when it was over. A few nights later, however, we heard a familiar step in the hallway, and we all ran out to see a tired-eyed but smiling young man, clad in sneakers and woollies provided by the Red Cross, standing there with a duffle-bag in his hand. There was wild rejoicing that night, and the next day we celebrated Christmas as it had been impossible to do on the twenty-fifth. We learned that my cousin’s ship had been torpedoed on his birthday, December 16th, and he had swum for hours in icy waters before being rescued. His Christmas dinner, eaten on board the rescue ship, had consisted of beef and potatoes but we made sure that a feast of fat things was set before him the day after his arrival. That, I think, was our most thankful Christmas.

  Now I must get back to hanging my Christmas decorations. But you may be sure that, glittering and gorgeous as they may be, nothing will mean quite as much to me as the bouquet of Christmas memories that exists in my heart. I feel sure there’s one in yours, too.

  Looking Back at Christmas 50 Years Ago

  by Kevin Jardine

  WATER STREET IS SPARKLING in the early dark. People are hurrying to and fro and everywhere there is a feeling of excitement. The horses with their bells seem to add to the harmony of the cold frosty day. Underfoot, the snow is crunching and people remark, “hear the snow crunching, a sure sign of a frosty night.”

  Many of the larger stores are particularly bright, and this is due to the fact that the bulbs they use are much more powerful than what they usually carry. Those bulbs will be stored away again when the New Year is over. The stores were not as well-heated in those days as they are now. The windows would be coated over but each had its electric fan which will enable the would-be purchaser to make a choice.

  Going back, it would seem that our weather changed a lot after the Burin tidal wave. There is no doubt that the winters are shorter. I remember quite well that in the month of November the Catholic Church bell would toll during that month of the holy souls. The bell tolled to remind us to offer our prayers for those that had departed. We were allowed out until 9 o’clock Friday nights, but had to hurry home for that prayer. We usually brought out our sled in late October. The streets would be well coated with snow and frost at that time. Skating officially started at Christmas, and it was a great disappointment if the ponds or lakes were not frozen over for Christmas day.

  The homes also were not as well-heated, and many of the windows would have what we called Jack Frost on them. What the people today are missing there also are the beautiful patterns. And if you wanted to see what it was like out, you breathed on the windowpane to make a small spot to see through.

  The front room was now getting ready for use during Christmas. The brass and silver all shining, and the carpet for those who had that luxury, gleaming as it has been cleaned with a stiff brush and coarse salt. The old furniture is also gleaming from a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil, plus a lot of elbow grease. All the pictures have been washed and those with gilt frames given a coat of gold paint. I can see some of them now. The frowning gentlemen, mostly with sweeping moustaches, their left hand in pants pocket and the right on the back of a chair where mom sat in prim dignity. Of course pop has his watch chain and fob displayed on quite an ample stomach. Then there is a picture of a young girl with her embroidered dress and hat. We were told that was your poor Aunt Hettie who died in the diphtheria epidemic, whenever that was.

  Let us take an imaginary walk down Water Street. The gang would consist of three or four boys, all close chums. First you had to tell your mother where you were going as the mothers of those days kept a constant watch on the street and their offspring. I can hear the answer. We are going down to see the shops, mom, all right? Don’t get into any mischief.

  As we went along, all hands keyed right up. We came to a slippery spot, and of course we ran for a bit and then skidded to the end. Hydrants also were never passed in a walk. Make a jump and over, Highbacks that was called.

  It’s the year 1921, and wonder of wonders in Bowrings’ window there is an electric train running. I think that was the first brought to Newfoundland. It came from England, and coming from there also gave it added prestige. My son English, that is bound to be good.

  The window has been tastefully decorated with boughs and evergreen, as well as a plentiful display of crepe paper. We got in next to the window and with distended eyes saw the train chugging along, giving out a puff of smoke now and again, then coming out of a tunnel with its headlights shattering the darkness. All the younger fry had dreams of that for months after although we knew that even wishing was not going to get us such a miracle.

  I can still hear some of the remarks. The smaller boys with their gee whiz, what a beauty. My son, just like a real one. Hush now, when she is passing that hill she will blow. There was a plentiful supply of the more mature also, and there also we hear the talk. Junos just imagine electric. Good Lord, what will they think of next; God Almighty, I wonder what my poor father would think of that. Sure he never even saw electric light. I wonder is a thing like that safe. What would happen if something went wrong? Sure some poor child might be killed. That thought struck me too. My son, they’ll be at it until somebody is hurt.

  As we trudged home we would hear what each one wanted for Christmas, but still going back they did not seem too disappointed when they did not get the magic lantern, they hoped for, or the set of meccano. This was a favourite toy for young boys, and not only kept their attention but help
ed them use their imagination. When your friends came to play with you, all kinds of suggestions were made. Have you enough things there to make a small trussel (referring to the trestle above the railway station)? Well then make a small one let’s build Symes Bridge. The young girls would be wishing for a doll, one that sleeps, Santy, if you have one to spare. Then there would be the little doll beds, cots and chairs. Little did most of them know that they were all built by the hands of a loving father.

  If the year had been bad for work, sometimes there would be a council of war as they used to call it. The mother and father would let the other children (those that did not believe in Santa Claus) stay up a bit. We knew what was coming then. The coffers were running low, and we would be asked if we could do without something we really wanted so that some little thing could be bought for the younger crowd. I remember one boy that was particularly helpful around the house all year who had one ambition, a pair of hockey skates. Those were those that were screwed to your boots. Up to then you had the Acme or the cheaper skeletons, both attached to the heel with a lever or turn screw arrangement. This particular case was that, the father being unwell, had lost a lot of work hours. They had two little girls, twin, aged four who really looked forward to the stocking and the hope of a doll, with extra dresses. Well the result was Tom, did not get the skates that year, and his sister did not get the cloud she wanted for skating on the Promenade. Tom today is a highly-respected citizen and one of the twin holds an important position in a city hospital. The other girl got married and as we used to say had a houseful. I met her only last week and asked her how things were going. Buskin’ along boy, she replied, but I don’t know what in the world I’ll do if things keep going up.