Counting on Christmas

We had our first snow this week - And I know that I have lamented the disturbing behaviour of those that get all festive prematurely - but the topic of what kind of holidays we can expect this year came up in our home.

“What kind of Christmas will it be this year?” asks Sue.

“Like the rest of them, I suppose,” is my reply.

“No, Ebenezer,'“ she says. “We’ll find a way to make it special - make it memorable.”

Trust me, Sue will succeed in this goal - as she usually does. No matter how grinchy I might be - she counterbalances with abundant grace and energy.

When Christmas shopping for the kids, Sue and I work hard to keep holiday spending equal across the board.

When they were youngsters, it was simple and straightforward – the same number of gifts regardless of investment. As presents were unwrapped, oldest boy Simon (not the math type), would sit in the corner keeping count on a notepad. These were easy calculations - each unwrap counted equally - and for the most part he was able to keep up.

These days, it’s the actual dollars invested that matter. In the true spirit of the season, the children hire a crew of forensic accountants to study receipts and ensure equity.

I don’t judge them for these calculations. I totally get it. When I was a boy, it was much the same for my siblings and me.

In those days, my mother - no matter our family squabbles or state of finances - always knew how to keep Christmas. Her force of will shines this time of year.

In our house, the holiday season was perpetually like that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey gets wasted at Martini’s Bar, loses his marbles, and yells at his daughter’s piano playing.

“Oh Daddy!”

We may have been tiptoeing upon eggnogshells, with wolves at the door collecting overdue bills, but nothing would get in the way of my mother’s vision for family festivities.

Decorations filled the home, gifts were numerous and, just like my children today, we were hyper-vigilant over the fairness of it all.

One Christmas morning, while father treated his Yuletide headache with some hair of the dog, we settled into position around the tree – presents sprawled around the living room.

Some gifts had already been partially unwrapped by Gretchen (a very weird dog) who when faced with wintry chills or drifts of snow preferred to do her business under my sister’s bed. How’s that for a lump of coal in your stocking?

Mother made sure that on top of a great number of small packages – whose pleasure was more in the mad ecstasy of the unwrap than the content, each child was sure to receive a bigger bounty – one meaty present that would be the standout of the season.

For Karen, my older sister, appropriate for her hippy, non-conforming spirit, it was a collection of obscure, subversive LP’s.

My brother, Jeff, would receive a gift that today would provoke an investigation: a deadly crossbow complete with metal-tipped arrows.

As he unwrapped the weapon, the glee in his eyes was terrifying. I looked at my parents in horror. Was it not as obvious to them? For me, it could not have been more clear: In Jeff’s imminent hunting fantasies, he was Davy Crockett, and I his bull moose.

For my younger sister, Laura, it was a hand-decorated, three-story dollhouse - a scale model of domestic bliss in stark contrast to the chaotic discord around us.

With nervous optimism I opened the last present tagged for me (the climax of my haul). The soft texture of the package hinted at clothing. Could it be at last my longed-for #14 Davey Keon Maple Leafs sweater?

I stopped breathing momentarily as I tore open the wrapping paper and gazed upon 4 pairs of jockey underwear – powder blue.

Desperately trying to stop the pre-sob twitching in my face, I slowly rose and shuffled up the stairs to hide in the bedroom I shared with my brother. There I would weep in solitude at my mistreatment and scream my accusations of injustice into the pillow on my bed.

As I opened the door to our room, I saw my father standing and smiling (a stubby of Labatt’s 50 in his hand). Jeff was kneeling on the floor, having just connected the last piece of track in a Lionel “O” scale electric train set.

This was quite the shock, for up to that point in my life, unexpected sightings of my brother did not end well for me.

But this time was different.

My suspicion quickly gave way to pure Christmas joy. I wiped away my tears of self-pity and within minutes my tin train was occupied by plastic army men plotting explosions, violent collisions, and derailings.

No Christmas memory compares.

Will we find new ways to make memories during this Christmas?

You can count on it.

Finding humour (and a love song) on the stage of a new journey

Hurry hard