I don't suppose there is anyone who is immune to the spirituality and excitement of Christmas. The event is happily one of those annual traditions in my family; and, apart from the odd year in the most recent past when (for the sake of a holiday) I have taken off for southern climes, we have always all been together over Christmas.
Unquestionably it is my Mother who is responsible for preserving the core of the event. Even to this day when both my sister and I have our respective residences, and my sister has her own family, we continue to focus upon the home of my parents, much as one focuses upon the Christmas tree at this time of year. It is where the action is; it is the Christmas scene, and we gather 'round. While my sister and I have more than once discussed convening the Christmas social events at one of our homes, rather than burdening my parents (and in particular my mother) with the obligation year after year, somehow nothing ever changed. Mother decorates her house within an inch of its life with not only the glittering tree, but also garlands along the stair bannister, Christmas cards paraded like stacked playing cards on large bright red ribbons, stockings hung in anticipation of fulfilment by the fireplace, small tokens and decorations along the mantel, festive flowers, not to mention the countless number of colourful inanimate paraphernalia and articles of adornment displayed over the entire dining room table where we eventually congregate.
The preamble to Christmas is as much a part of the occasion as the occasion itself. For months before Christmas my mother is metaphorically wringing her hands about her complete inability to think of anything to get for anyone as a gift. Historically, I dismissed this apparent dilemma as merely a reflection of the fact that each of her family members was getting older, and therefore the task of buying something for them was becoming more difficult. Much like children growing up and all that - getting over the customary doll or racing car. But this excuse did little in fact to crystallize the malaise, since the problem continued year after year for mother, notwithstanding how old anyone was - four or forty. It applied equally to adults as to grandchildren. She was seemingly completely at sea on the point. Though I must confess there was one year when I was inclined to acknowledge the mystification she had undergone. Mother, in her exuberance for gift-giving, always showered eachofuswithmanymorethanonegift,andtherewasalways“yourmaingift”. Inthisparticular case, my “main gift” was a largish brass container which was smothered in white tissue and packaged in a lovely white cardboard box with the golden emblem of David Brown's Antiques from Montreal. Normally, this would have heralded good tidings, so to speak. However, when I unravelled the tissue from this object, I confess that my ignorance of the nature of the gift was more than apparent. I hadn't a clue what it was. My mother, no doubt crushed by this obvious turn of events, rallied as best one can under such circumstances and advanced the theory which I surmise had been proferred to her by Mr. Brown himself; viz., that the thing was to be screwed to the wall of one's staircase, to dispose of the used candles which one would naturally want to abandon while making the long journey to one's bedchamber in the upper levels of the castle. The point had clearly been lost on me, and I rather think that mother, while regurgitating the secret to the puzzle, instinctively felt that the utility of the object was being stretched beyond the pale. In fact, she succinctly summarized her heartfelt sentiment when she uttered, “I knew when I came out of the
The preamble to Christmas is as much a part of the occasion as the occasion itself. For months before Christmas my mother is metaphorically wringing her hands about her complete inability to think of anything to get for anyone as a gift. Historically, I dismissed this apparent dilemma as merely a reflection of the fact that each of her family members was getting older, and therefore the task of buying something for them was becoming more difficult. Much like children growing up and all that - getting over the customary doll or racing car. But this excuse did little in fact to crystallize the malaise, since the problem continued year after year for mother, notwithstanding how old anyone was - four or forty. It applied equally to adults as to grandchildren. She was seemingly completely at sea on the point. Though I must confess there was one year when I was inclined to acknowledge the mystification she had undergone. Mother, in her exuberance for gift-giving, always showered eachofuswithmanymorethanonegift,andtherewasalways“yourmaingift”. Inthisparticular case, my “main gift” was a largish brass container which was smothered in white tissue and packaged in a lovely white cardboard box with the golden emblem of David Brown's Antiques from Montreal. Normally, this would have heralded good tidings, so to speak. However, when I unravelled the tissue from this object, I confess that my ignorance of the nature of the gift was more than apparent. I hadn't a clue what it was. My mother, no doubt crushed by this obvious turn of events, rallied as best one can under such circumstances and advanced the theory which I surmise had been proferred to her by Mr. Brown himself; viz., that the thing was to be screwed to the wall of one's staircase, to dispose of the used candles which one would naturally want to abandon while making the long journey to one's bedchamber in the upper levels of the castle. The point had clearly been lost on me, and I rather think that mother, while regurgitating the secret to the puzzle, instinctively felt that the utility of the object was being stretched beyond the pale. In fact, she succinctly summarized her heartfelt sentiment when she uttered, “I knew when I came out of the
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shop I had made a mistake. I said, You stupid bitch!”. What more could one add! As it turned out, the odd item provided a welcome excuse to visit Montreal in the New Year, and I made a trade of it for another article which I now have in my home and which I enjoy very much, though its utility is equally dubious (it is a lovely mahogany box containing poker chips and cards - a pastime I have never undertaken).
By contrast to my mother, my father cultivates the air of someone who abhors gifts, other perhaps than toys for children, books for adults and chocolates for himself (especially ginger covered in dark chocolate). There was a time, however, when my father secreted envelopes of money in the Christmas tree for each of us, and once he even spent hours on Christmas Eve rolling up dollar bills of varying denominations in coloured paper tied with little ribbons and then hiding them throughout the house. This play on the Easter theme caused me, and no doubt my mother, endless concern on Christmas morning, as we kept a watchful eye on the mountains of discarded wrapping paper gathering before the roaring fire, and wondered whether my father had taken the precaution (which in fact he had) of recording exactly where these numerous rolls of money and the amounts thereof had been deposited. Dad's real gift, however, has never been of the strictly material or substantive nature, but rather of the more spiritual and reflective sort. Somewhere along the line (let us say in the past twenty-five years or so), he has taken to secluding himself on Christmas Eve in his study in the basement to compose what is invariably a very lengthy review of the past year, and in particular the economic and financial well-being of himself and the respective members of the family, both immediate and extended. I have always found that this letter reads somewhat like a balance sheet and income statement, punctuated by such delightful platitudes as Life has its Ups and Downs and that sort of thing. It all makes a nice off-set for the sinful amount of gifts which mother has managed to collect for us over the past ten months or so. It usually has fallen upon me to read Dad's letter aloud to the assembled throng, which is no small task in view of the difficult handwriting and the numerous interlineations, asterisks, cross-references and marginal notations. Nonetheless, it is a well-established part of the Chapman Christmas tradition, and I have saved each and every copy of these letters for future reference.
On Christmas morning, my sister has made a point of insisting upon a rigorously observed menu, which consists of fresh-squeezed orange juice spiked with Champagne, croissants with homemade preserves (often Mother's peach jam), filet mignon and scrambled eggs loaded with butter. It invariably provided a good start to the day and sustained us throughout the long gift opening scenario that followed until the late afternoon, when the rich hors d'oeuvres of dates stuffed with blue cheese, shrimp with sauce, roasted pecans, various cheeses and crackers would arrive. It is a wonder we were able to consume what followed in the dining room. Mother always managed to have an enormous turkey, almost unbearably heavy. She had been up since the early morning hours, stuffing the bird with homemade stuffing, then roasting it throughout the day. There were vegetables of every description, to which had been added sherry and nuts and raisins; gravy with wine; butter on everything; mountains of salad (which somehow we forgot every year); and of course dessert - not just one, but two - a traditional Christmas cake or plum pudding, and perhaps a minced meat pie. And two kinds of sauces for the plum pudding - a hard lemon sauce, and a hot lemon butter. And then came the Christmas cookies - sweets of chocolate balls, squares, half-moon crescents of almond paste and little chocolate-covered items which seemed like pretzels that crunched and cracked in your mouth. By the time we retired from the table to the drawing room to sip our coffee, each of us had about had it, and it was not long before I determined to make my way like a bulging goose back home.
shop I had made a mistake. I said, You stupid bitch!”. What more could one add! As it turned out, the odd item provided a welcome excuse to visit Montreal in the New Year, and I made a trade of it for another article which I now have in my home and which I enjoy very much, though its utility is equally dubious (it is a lovely mahogany box containing poker chips and cards - a pastime I have never undertaken).
By contrast to my mother, my father cultivates the air of someone who abhors gifts, other perhaps than toys for children, books for adults and chocolates for himself (especially ginger covered in dark chocolate). There was a time, however, when my father secreted envelopes of money in the Christmas tree for each of us, and once he even spent hours on Christmas Eve rolling up dollar bills of varying denominations in coloured paper tied with little ribbons and then hiding them throughout the house. This play on the Easter theme caused me, and no doubt my mother, endless concern on Christmas morning, as we kept a watchful eye on the mountains of discarded wrapping paper gathering before the roaring fire, and wondered whether my father had taken the precaution (which in fact he had) of recording exactly where these numerous rolls of money and the amounts thereof had been deposited. Dad's real gift, however, has never been of the strictly material or substantive nature, but rather of the more spiritual and reflective sort. Somewhere along the line (let us say in the past twenty-five years or so), he has taken to secluding himself on Christmas Eve in his study in the basement to compose what is invariably a very lengthy review of the past year, and in particular the economic and financial well-being of himself and the respective members of the family, both immediate and extended. I have always found that this letter reads somewhat like a balance sheet and income statement, punctuated by such delightful platitudes as Life has its Ups and Downs and that sort of thing. It all makes a nice off-set for the sinful amount of gifts which mother has managed to collect for us over the past ten months or so. It usually has fallen upon me to read Dad's letter aloud to the assembled throng, which is no small task in view of the difficult handwriting and the numerous interlineations, asterisks, cross-references and marginal notations. Nonetheless, it is a well-established part of the Chapman Christmas tradition, and I have saved each and every copy of these letters for future reference.
On Christmas morning, my sister has made a point of insisting upon a rigorously observed menu, which consists of fresh-squeezed orange juice spiked with Champagne, croissants with homemade preserves (often Mother's peach jam), filet mignon and scrambled eggs loaded with butter. It invariably provided a good start to the day and sustained us throughout the long gift opening scenario that followed until the late afternoon, when the rich hors d'oeuvres of dates stuffed with blue cheese, shrimp with sauce, roasted pecans, various cheeses and crackers would arrive. It is a wonder we were able to consume what followed in the dining room. Mother always managed to have an enormous turkey, almost unbearably heavy. She had been up since the early morning hours, stuffing the bird with homemade stuffing, then roasting it throughout the day. There were vegetables of every description, to which had been added sherry and nuts and raisins; gravy with wine; butter on everything; mountains of salad (which somehow we forgot every year); and of course dessert - not just one, but two - a traditional Christmas cake or plum pudding, and perhaps a minced meat pie. And two kinds of sauces for the plum pudding - a hard lemon sauce, and a hot lemon butter. And then came the Christmas cookies - sweets of chocolate balls, squares, half-moon crescents of almond paste and little chocolate-covered items which seemed like pretzels that crunched and cracked in your mouth. By the time we retired from the table to the drawing room to sip our coffee, each of us had about had it, and it was not long before I determined to make my way like a bulging goose back home.
It has been a great joy for my parents to spend so much time at Christmas with their grandchildren and my nieces, Jennifer and Julia. During their tender years, the little girls really made Christmas the special day it is to be. For all of us. My parents, as grandparents, obviously thrilled to see the little ones; and I took pleasure in pulling them behind me on a toboggan in the snow in the nearby fields. Ed and Lindy, as parents, were also delighted to share with the girls their excitement about a new toy, game or some article of clothing. The girls also pointed the way to the true spirit of Christmas by sharing with each one of us their very clever efforts at making homemade Christmas cards, which were a huge success with my father in particular. Again, I have saved each and every of these cards in a special box which in fact was given to me one Christmas by Ed and Lindy.
After Ed and Lindy were married, the routine on Christmas Eve changed somewhat in that Ed's family held a large traditional gathering to celebrate his family's European customs. This meant that Lindy no longer visited my parents' home on Christmas Eve, though I continued to do. Sometimes, I would bring along a visitor who might otherwise be alone over the holiday, and we would all engage in such challenging activities as Monopoly, which I always lost to my father - who accumulated mountains of cash, while my equally vast real estate holdings went under for lack of income. On Christmas Eve my mother would feed the beast in each of us with a traditional French Canadian diet of tourtiere pie and cabbage salad. And my father would introduce the meal with freshly shucked oysters, which for years were brought directly from New Brunswick for the occasion. At times, the oysters were eaten raw with a squeeze of lemon juice; at others, they were incorporated in a creamy sauce as an oyster chowder.
After Ed and Lindy were married, the routine on Christmas Eve changed somewhat in that Ed's family held a large traditional gathering to celebrate his family's European customs. This meant that Lindy no longer visited my parents' home on Christmas Eve, though I continued to do. Sometimes, I would bring along a visitor who might otherwise be alone over the holiday, and we would all engage in such challenging activities as Monopoly, which I always lost to my father - who accumulated mountains of cash, while my equally vast real estate holdings went under for lack of income. On Christmas Eve my mother would feed the beast in each of us with a traditional French Canadian diet of tourtiere pie and cabbage salad. And my father would introduce the meal with freshly shucked oysters, which for years were brought directly from New Brunswick for the occasion. At times, the oysters were eaten raw with a squeeze of lemon juice; at others, they were incorporated in a creamy sauce as an oyster chowder.
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