Curiosity, Pain, Patience and Joy

I would like to share a real Christmas story with you. I know the next few days will be hectic, so I might not have time to post. Almost 20 years ago I wrote short, mostly humorous articles for our local country newspaper. This was the story I published that Christmas:

1953 seems like so long ago, yet just like yesterday. We were a young immigrant family escaping post-war Europe, where the reconstruction was slow to take place. The immigration posters had painted a pretty picture of the vast new land called Canada: "Land for Everyone--Streets Paved With Gold!"--such were the promises.

Guided by the beacon of a bright new future, we went off across the sea: my parents and we two little girls. We left behind our ancestry, our relatives, and poverty.




 


Dad settled us on a small homestead near Cold Lake. Our first home was a granary with no insulation, one small window, a plywood door and a mattress on the floor. A full quarter of the room was taken by our steamer trunk which held clothes, linens and mementos of our homeland. I remember vividly the paradox of the barrel stove burning red-hot while ice formed on the bare wooden floor.

Having arrived in late fall, we had little time and fewer resources to prepare for winter. There was no way we could have envisioned the severity of the northern Canadian winter that was to come.We had had wonderful European customs of home baking and decorations which were newly home-made each year: walnuts painted gold and silver and candy wrapped in tissue paper. Now we had no oven and no utensils (only one cooking pot). But we had oh-so-much pride! I do not ever remember feeling that we were hard up. We spent that winter in the granary while Papa picked up casual work and learned the language.

Never did I think that the Christkindl (Christmas Child) would overlook our house on Christmas Eve. Stepping retrospectively into my parents' shoes, I can almost experience what they went through knowing that there would be no gifts that year. As if by a miracle, the local hotel needed a chambermaid for a few days. My mother, Mama, left us to go to work for the very first time in my life. I remember that terrible feeling to this very day, as I waved good-bye to her, knowing that we children were home alone.
Not long before Christmas--the weather had been very severe--my sister and I had cabin fever. We decided we would play dress-up and hide-and-peek in the trunk. Upon opening the mysterious trunk, we found--OH JOY!--a pair of wonderful, soft, teddy bears. We began to play, and Mama walked in.

She blanched as if she had been struck. Mama was generally a very gentle person, but she grabbed the bears away roughly and stuffed them into the trunk. We expected a spanking, or a scolding, but instead, we watched our brave, strong mother collapse onto the mattress in uncontrollable sobs.

The bears were our one and only Christmas surprise. There wouldn't even be a tree.

Mama collected herself and never mentioned the incident. It wasn't until years later, that I realized that, in our innocent curiosity we had deprived ourselves of two great pleasures: our own surprise and our parents' parental bliss as Mama and Papa vicariously participated in our joy.
To this day I have never again shown any curiosity about presents. I don't squeeze, poke, rattle or sniff. I'm perfectly content to wait for the fullness of the special occasion.

PS: About that long ago Christmas: the bears had new hand-knit toques, scarves and sweaters on that Eve--Mama's eyes did sparkle!


Mama, the culprits, the bears and a new Baby Brother born in 1954, after we moved to Edmonton.


In the first picture above, of us in front of the granary, the little toddler is the son of a neighbor.

Until Next time: A very Merry Christmas, the Peace of the Lord, and a Happy, healthy and prosperous New Year from our house to yours.