Pictures of Christmases past

During the winters my father got up early every morning to start the fire that had gone out in the kitchen stove and to restoke the living-room heater, that, if the night had been especially freezing, he had already fed a number of times.
Then into his outdoor gear and away to the barn, shovelling his way down the path or making big steps through the drifts, to start the morning chores.
My mother also rose at the same time. Breakfast was begun and the kitchen range coaxed to toasty warmth. Water was heated for a quick “behind-the-ears” wash and the coffee pot set on the stove to perk. We were usually allowed to stay in bed until the last possible minute. Our mother’s call of, “I see your father coming up the path,” gave us the incentive to fling back the heap of blankets and dress rapidly in the clothes we had dragged under the covers earlier for warming.
If we had to rise with our parents, we were not shy about dressing in the front room, our warm clothes that had been piled on the range helping to get the blood circulating.
Christmas mornings were the high point of the year! The cold was forgotten. Parcels that had magically appeared were explored in the early morning dark under the tree, and our bulging stockings dragged back to bed where little fingers checked the toes to make sure the prized orange was there. Our father’s work socks made wonderful Christmas stockings as they were long and expandable. We had never seen anything else that could take their place.
One Christmas Eve I begged to be allowed to sleep downstairs in the hope of catching Santa at his work. The living room couch was wrestled into a backwards position by my obliging parents and I happily went to bed there knowing Santa would not escape my tuned-in ears. Of course, he came and left as I snored softly on, up to the ears in blankets and dreams of the morning joys to come.
Two other Christmas Eves come to mind as the season approaches.
One is of my brother and me helping Dad put the finishing touches to a beautiful homemade doll house for our younger sister. We felt very special to be allowed to help with this surprise, shingling the roof, papering the little rooms and painting the window trim.
She thought it was the most wonderful thing to receive and it graced our house for many years to follow. The second picture is of returning home after a cold sleigh-ride, which took us for miles around our rural community with other young people.
While carolling for neighbours and shut-ins was a noble thing to do, we also had a glorious time shoving each other off the sleigh and running madly down snow – covered roads trying to reach the hands stretching out to pull one back aboard into the sweet – smelling hay. I treasure this memory – the sleigh ride behind the uncomplaining team of horses, the sweet sound of carols, of neighbours, who through their generosity and kindness made our nighttime visit so warm and safe, and the fun we derived from close-knit friendships.
The same feeling of joy envelopes me as I step back in time, in my mind’s eye, through the south door into our kitchen.
The smells of baking, the sight of candies and grapes ready on the sideboard for stocking stuffing, the gentle gurgle of coffee perking on the stove and the happy, flushed faces of my parents as they welcomed us home in time to put the last parcels under the tinselled tree and drape the stockings of all believers in the magic and blessings of Christmas, over the back of an old stuffed chair, delight me once again.
In later years, our father developed a love for photography and dutifully we all posed on Christmas Day for family, group and individual pictures. Mother had some of these hanging on her hall wall and they were always a reminder of fine holidays spent together over the years. But where are the pictures of those childhood years of fond memory? Non-existent in any tangible form but treasured forever in my mind as portraits of steadfastness during a troubled time of depression and war.
My parents never seemed to complain nor did I ever feel that Christmas had not provided everything my heart desired.
Pictures of Christmases past, yes, but also those of the future, as we rejoice in the blessings of the season and the warmth of the goodwill that still binds us all together, now as before, and in all the Christmases to come.