For many years when my life revolved around raising my son, Christmas was a big deal at my house. One might go so far as to say, my decking of the halls and pre-Xmas preparation was somewhat over the top. Nostalgia and melancholy seemed to arrive the moment I flipped the wall calendar from November to December. Memories of my own childhood Christmases would fuel my frenzy of decorating and shopping and I was one of those radio listeners that actually liked it when my station of choice started playing nothing but sappy seasonal tunes 24/7. (that was hard to admit).
It was easy to justify my obsessive Christmas fervour when I had a little one I wanted to experience the magic of flying reindeers and the miracle of a fat white-bearded man in a red suit that could slide down our chimney in the night while he slept. One year in particular stands out in my mind. The year I succeeded in making that magic believable. As I stood in our living room on Christmas morning, video camera in hand, watching my little 5 year old come down the stairs of our old house in Toronto, he stopped halfway down. From there, he could see the tree next to the fireplace and he gasped and shouted up to his father who was still in bed…”Dad, come quick!” he shouted. His face was lit up as bright as the star on top of our tree and then he added, as he scanned the abundance of gifts under the tree, “I must have been REALLY good!” Wanting to repeat that same sense of awe and wonder in successive years, I continued with my “full on” Christmases well into his teens. He is 28 now and I often wonder if his memories of our small family festive seasons will ever lead him to one day create his own version of that magic. For now, he is childless and likely content to slide past the holiday season with friends his own age doing whatever young unmarrieds do together, interspersed with a visit to his dad and a visit to me. He does still put in a request for the chocolate coconut macaroons I made every year when he was a kid, but he does not seem to have inherited his mother’s passion for the perfect Christmas, and honestly, I hope he never does. I was a maniac - driven by my perfectionist tendencies like a possessed Elf Queen, spurred on by the likes of Martha Stewart and her “good things”. No fake trees for me. No blow-up snowmen on my lawn. I did succumb to a four foot high plastic vintage looking Santa that lit up one year when my boy was 5 but he wasn’t standing on the porch or the lawn - oh no - he was fastened to our roof, reinforcing the myth of his pending arrival on Christmas Eve, marking his landing spot. Reindeer food was placed on the dining table before bed - a carrot, some celery and a couple of homemade short bread cookies for Santa and a glass of milk. Come morning, nothing remained but a few crumbs, a wilted carrot top and an empty glass with a faint imprint of Santa’s bottom lip on the glass. Bloody magic. As Christmas 2022 approaches, I still crank on Nat King Cole and get all nostalgic thinking about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. That one never gets old. My father was particularly fond of Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas but my son and I latched on to the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s Charlie Brown Christmas as “our” beloved choice to launch the season and then put on repeat for the month of December. There was other music we grew to love and we once even cried in the car together listening to The Christmas Shoes by NewSong the year it was released. The annual trip to see grandparents wasn’t complete without hearing Driving Home for Christmas by Chris Rea. But that was then and I am not that gal anymore. Maybe I overdosed. I can still take the bait, but now, instead of taking it all the way down my gullet, I nibble at it. Thirty minutes of Kenny G’s Miracles album and then back to Van Morrison lest I get too nostalgic for the past. My years of tropical Christmas seasons in Australia and a child who grew up took the wind out my sentimental sails, probably for the good. One can only strive for perfection for so long before the cracks in the Christmas cake become crevasses. I take my Decembers with fewer egg nogs and a couple hundred less twinkling lights now. If there is a petition out there campaigning for the reduction of Christmas from yearly to once every two or three years, I will be the first to sign it. Do we really need to embark on this journey of crass commercialism EVERY year? I am not exactly a Scrooge or Grinch now but I wouldn’t mind a break from it now and then. So, considering these views, I had been somewhat begrudgingly doing some decking of the halls here at Kyeema North, spurred on by an early snowfall in November and a bit of fun making snowmen when I got an email out of the blue from a woman in Australia wondering if Mick and I would be interested in doing a two month dog/housesit. Mick had hauled the 3 Christmas bins down off the high shelves in the garage the day before and a few holiday baubles had started making their way into the house. I had planted up an Amaryllis in a pot timed to bloom by Dec 25th. Two poinsettias were already gracing the sideboard and coffee table. I was hemming and hawing about whether or not we would chop down our own tree this year since my boy was not coming and it seemed like too much work considering, and that’s when we looked at each other and said - “Should we?” Was this “our” Christmas miracle this year? Was I getting my wish without even having signed a petition? Was an email from a stranger like the bell ringing in A Wonderful Life? Was the angel getting it’s wings comparable to a Qantas jet flying over the Pacific from Canada to Australia? Had our two snowmen, Frosty and Billy Bong headed down under, clearing the way for us? Were we meant to go and find them? Yes! Yes and Yes! What else could it be? The magic of Christmas, just came to me! I’ve halted the decking and baking, the ribbons and bows, Started the planning and packing, and painting of toes. There’ll be no Christmas of White, no chopping of trees, just the warm summer sun on my face and my knees. No need for St Nick to land on our roof or bring gifts at all, we’ll just wish him well with a long distance call. We’ll ring in the New Year from a house way down under, where warm balmy breezes will sure make us wonder - What were we thinking as it got colder and colder, we weren’t getting younger, Just older and older? We’ll miss the smell of spruce and pine, while we sip that fine Australian wine. So Happy Christmas to you and to yours May you all get the wish on your own Christmas list.
7 Comments
Cuz
11/30/2022 01:35:38 pm
I know exactly how you feel. Maybe this is something that comes with age and wisdom. Let our children and their children carry on the old traditions if they so choose and just let us rest. Frank and I both wish you a very Merry Christmas down under.
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Deb
12/1/2022 04:33:22 am
Yup, time to pass the baton! Thanks and Merry Christmas to you and Frank as well.
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11/30/2022 01:41:43 pm
I am a fellow Christmas maniac and LOVE this one Deb... although I wish I could follow you to OZ!! Got my toes painted today just to be covered up with woolie socks.
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Deb
12/1/2022 04:36:13 am
Thanks Cindy - even hidden toes appreciate the attention!
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Carla Sandrin
11/30/2022 06:36:31 pm
What a great opportunity, Deb! Yes, go for it while you can still do that kind of travelling! Winters can be long and bleak here in Ontario, and this trip will break up the season for you. Your Christmas enthusiasm of the past will always stay with you and your family as cherished memories; it was a different time, a different life and now you are on an exciting new festive adventure. I look forward to reading about it...
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Deb
12/1/2022 04:39:06 am
Thanks Carla. It was an offer too good to refuse! Hope you have a very Merry Christmas as well!
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DEBunked.I see nature as a metaphor for life. Please join me on this journey down the garden path as I explore life through story - a shovel in one hand and a camera in the other. Archives
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