The other day (one of my favourite expressions) I overheard someone asking another what they wanted for Christmas and, like flipping on a switch, my brain immediately began making my own list that required no thought, just the flood of memories pouring freely from my heart in no particular order.
- to run into Annie’s kitchen and hear her laugh, her arms gathering me in, and together we will make sugar donuts and know the delicious comfort of being loved
- to cruise through town with Lori in my dad’s car, being just as comfortable with silence as with laughter, curious about the questions that seem to have no answers, blessed with the gift of friendship
- to listen to Billy and Jim on their guitars, their music from the once upon a time when we had no idea what aging meant
- to watch Doug and Blair riding Stormy and Rock, the coolest of cowboys
- to sit in Mr. Quesnel’s homeroom, third row from the window, second desk from the front, and know the safety of his care and concern for all who came through his door
- to watch Mr. Hickling’s enthusiasm for mathematics come to life right before our eyes
- to gallop over hill and dale with Deb on Holy Smoke, me behind on Flirt with her much shorter legs
- to sit atop the stairs with Sherry, waiting for permission for Christmas Morning to begin and feel the sublime blessing of being sisters
- to see the friendly smile of Barry Cox behind the counter at the post office as I hand him the stack of Christmas cards from my parents to be mailed, being witness to kindness in its purest form
- to lie beneath the Christmas tree, its lights twinkling in the dark room, next to the piano and to the angels sprayed on the glass with “snow” on the nearby window while Perry Como softly croons “T’was The Night Before Christmas”
- to find a patch of ice somewhere in the field, no matter the size, upon which to skate to my heart’s content, doing toe loops and double axels in my imagination without a single misstep
- to be tucked into “Uncle Dick’s” trailer behind the snow machine, to zoom along the trails to a fire waiting to warm us all up, the “Stewart boys” and the Lyons family whom we claimed as our own
- to hear my daughters giggling in bed, imagining they can, as I did before them, hear Santa’s sleigh on the roof and hear his jolly laugh
- to buy a small white bag of warm roasted cashews from Ray S Holmes Confectionery, hearing the tinkling of the bells hanging on the door to alert an arrival, and pausing long enough to take a spin on the stools at the soda counter
- to toboggan down the hill at the farm, snow stinging my face with exhilarating joy and with screams of delight, while a hot mug of cocoa waits for me in the house to warm my toes and fingertips, and to soften the red of my cheeks
- to taste my mother’s shortbread melting on my tongue, the bits of sweet maraschino cherries sticking to my teeth
- to drive up and down the streets of town to see all the Christmas lights, the grand and the humble, the bright and the dim, all of it
- to see a Christmas movie at the Royal Theatre with its red corduroy seats, after the Santa Claus Parade and the little tub of ice cream with the wee wooden spoon from Flinders Dairy
- to feel the humble gratitude for the season, while digging through the stocking filled with surprises, especially the single mandarin orange at the very bottom
- to rest my face against my father’s chest to hear the rhythm of his heart, as he whispered “Merry Christmas” into my hair
To relive one of these would be gift enough; to remember them all fills my heart to the brim. Wishing each of you the joy of Christmas remembering.
wendistewart@live.ca
