It’s December. I’ve officially granted myself permission to break out into Christmas song with vigour and fanfare at the drop of a hat, a little dance thrown in for good measure. Truth be told, I don’t need a calendar to do that. My granddaughter was born April 4th and the song that put her to sleep in my arms was “Up on the Housetop” even though Christmas was nowhere in sight. She still smiles when I sing it, happy to hear of reindeer paws and dear Old Santa Claus jumping out of the sleigh all these seven years later, needing no snow and no specific month to soak up the joy of being loved.
‘Tis the season for baking, though again, I’ve been known to “build” a butterscotch pie when a craving descends upon me at 9:30 at night no matter the month, using my grandmother’s recipe with ingredients that include “butter the size of an egg”, her notion of guesswork, that I adore, handed down to me. I had shortbread this morning with my coffee – the breakfast of champions; just saying. Every year I try some new recipe that sounds like the perfect seasonal treat to share with neighbours. Some are successful and others, sadly, are not. I have the traditional standards – shortbread with green and red cherries, caramel crackle, Russian tea cakes, raspberry thumbprint. Maybe one shouldn’t wander from the reliable, but I always wonder if a discovery of the perfect cookie is just on the next page. I made chocolate peanut butter balls for the first time this year and after thorough and concise research, I can firmly declare, after two independent studies because I’m no slacker, that you really can eat too many chocolate peanut butter balls. Who knew? There’s hardly enough inventory left over to share so perhaps I should just finish them off. All in the name of science.
We haven’t seen sunshine since 2012 or so it seems. Day after day of grey bleak weather here in Atlantic Canada. I don’t have to shovel the rain, which I am ever so grateful for, but my soul could really use a little yellow light gleaming down from the sky. If it doesn’t happen soon, I may have to paint a sun on my skylight. A Christmas album always improves my mood be it Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” or Mel Tormé’s “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” or Nat King Cole’s “Cradle in Bethlehem” or Rosemary Clooney’s “Silver Bells”. I like the oldies. Hearing Perry Como’s gentle voice recite “The Night Before Christmas” takes me back to childhood Christmas in the blink of an eye and I stay there and warm myself by the fire of memories.
I know some of us grumble when the commercial side of Christmas arrives so early in the stores. I heard a Christmas tune in a store just a few days after Remembrance Day and I must confess I couldn’t suppress a reactionary wince. I may have even glanced at my watch as though there might be a warning there. The lights on the houses seem to have gone up early and in great abundance. Those who would complain should remind themselves that life is laden with struggle and strife these days, with high prices for the necessities, and no shortage of things to fret about. January will be here all too soon with its long cold nights and relentless falling snow. The Christmas lights offer us a small and much needed reprieve from stress and heartache, our world literally brightened by the assortment of lights and inflatable creatures. Let’s encourage December to saunter as she wanders by, with no need for haste, while she wraps her arm around our shoulders, urging us to sink into our cozy sofas, under a warm blanket with a cup of hot chocolate, our cheeks pink and our eyes bright, our memories of Christmas past brought to the surface where they can be revisited in detail in our hearts. I’ll write my Christmas letters and hope Canada Post finds a solution in time for them to be delivered. And maybe just one more chocolate peanut butter ball for the road; what could it hurt.
wendistewart@live.ca
