Classic Christmas Stories (8 page)

by P. J. Kinsella

T
HE FOLLOWING IS A true story. I had always threatened
to tell it, for because of its beauty, its humanity and its worth of the real
Santa who played so splendidly the part, I do not think the incident can be
surpassed for its genuine charity and love.

A few months ago Mr. James Gushue of the General Post Office, passed to the
Great Beyond, and all who knew the feeling heart of this good man, and how kind
and sympathetic it was for every appeal, from some other kindred soul, will
readily see how true it must be. Let me add the line in all sincerity and
truth— “James Gushue was a beloved.” This is the story—a beautiful one, and I
tell it as he told it to me.

It was three years ago, and a week before Christmas. It was a blustery, cold,
and biting day, and as I ploughed my way through the heavy snow, buoyed up by
the thought that I would soon be comfortably seated in my cosy chair, and
rejuvenated by that prospect, a little girl poorly clad, and ill protected
against so trying a weather sprang towards me, and as I judged, from a near
snow-bank.

“Please sir, ” she asked, “will you give me five cents, I want to buy—”
Just then a severe drift of snow came between us, and when it
had passed, and I was preparing to give the child a coin—I found she had gone,
probably into one of the nearby houses where I judged she lived.

But the spirit of Christmas was about, and I felt sad, because the little one
would never know but that I had refused her request, and this too troubled
me—What was it she had intended to buy? It was, perhaps you will think, a small
thing to trouble about—but there, the spirit of Christmas was around, and it
seemed to whisper to me, as it did to the Scrooge of Dickens Land, “Man, man,
'tis the thought of the Child's day”— “Let us remember that!”

I continued my way to the Post Office, and found much mail matter awaiting me
there, there was quite a bunch of returned letters and a number of them had to
be opened in order to get at the names of senders. Amidst that voluminous pile
of correspondence was a letter that touched me to the heart. It was addressed
simply “MR. SANTA CLAUS” ST. JOHN'S and read thus:

Dear Santa:

I want a lot of things for Christmas, mamma says we have no money to send
you, but I want a tea set, and a Dolly, and a Dolly's cot, and I want some
oranges and apples, and Mamma says if I write to you I will get them. I am a
good little girl.

Nellie

Don't forget some candy.

The address of the child was written and instantly like an
inspiration from God, came to me the resolution . . . to be Santa Claus.

'Twas the spirit of Christmas about me, and I tell you I felt all the
enthusiasm of a kid myself, as I prepared a parcel for “Nellie” on Christmas
Eve. I secured all the dear old childish toys, some fruit and some candy, and in
the centre of a box of chocolates I placed a note reading something like
this:

“To ‘Nellie' from Santa Claus.

Who received her letter.”

I never felt so happy in my life as that hour on Christmas Eve when the package
was delivered to Nellie's house on —— Street, and— (you say 'twas a beautiful
thing)—well!—well!!

If God is the beautiful, and benevolent, and loving of our heart's deep
emotion, if the heart and soul of a child shall bring a man nearer to “the
Godhead, ” and if the cup of cold water given in His name shall win its reward,
then to-day, this Christmas Eve, the soul of James Gushue is happy in the
eternal love and recompense of Him “who calleth the children.”

by Stella Whelan

N
O DOUBT THERE WERE other signs and portents but when I
was a child the Christmas season opened officially with the making and baking of
the Light Cake and the Dark Cake. These operations provided a multitude of
fascinating occupations of which I never tired.

There were currants and raisins to be washed and dried; red cherries to be cut
up; citron to be sliced; egg whites to be whipped into pearly mounds; yolks
beaten into luscious, yellow cream; and flour to be measured, sifted and
measured again.

The black iron pot had to be carefully fitted with greased brown paper and this
necessitated much careful work with the scissors. Our Number Seven Ideal Cook
had to be well supplied with splits and coal, heated to a fever pitch and then
banked down for the baking.

Every detail was noted, every move watched with unflagging attention.

The baking period itself was one of some anxiety. The rich brown smells that
filled the house were glorious, but was the oven too hot? Was it hot enough?
Would the cakes burn? Would they fall? All of these apprehensions I shared with
my mother and I breathed a sigh of relief with her when the cakes emerged from
the oven, fragrant and golden brown.

But the end was not yet—the best was yet to come.

In due course, when the cakes were deemed to be sufficiently
matured, they were placed on the kitchen table for the Icing Ceremony. Involving
none of the hazards of the actual baking, this was a task of pure delight. After
the cakes had been duly spread with mounds of snow white icing, there were the
bowls to lick. No confection in the world has ever tasted quite like it!

This great project completed, the next landmark was the appearance of Santa’s
picture in the
Daily News
and
Evening Telegram
. This event was
eagerly awaited for once Santa’s picture had appeared in the positive that Santa
had begun his journey from the North Pole and would be on hand to fill my
stocking on Christmas Eve.

Then the day came to order the Christmas groceries. These included table apples
(as opposed to the barrel of apples that was always kept in the porch); Valencia
oranges, grapes from Greece that came in small wooden barrels with bits of cork
still clinging to them; “bought” biscuits and several varieties of nuts in their
shells. When I was a child no one would dream of celebrating Christmas without
nuts and a nutcracker.

Amongst the groceries there would always be a bottle of highly coloured syrup
which was a gift from the store where we “dealt.” There was also a box of
chocolates from the China Man. With a long, blue laundry bag dangling from his
shoulder, this patient laundry man came once a week to collect my father’s
shirts. Our number was M-29. At Christmas time he did up the Good Table
Cloth.

On Christmas Eve all these goodies were symetrically displayed on the
sideboard—a bowl of oranges on one end, a bowl of apples on the other. In
between lay the dish of nuts flanked by the nut-cracker. The bought biscuits
were placed in a barrel-shaped glass container known as the “Biscuit Jar.” I
entertained an almost reverential awe for this object, believing it to be of
untold worth.

There was however, another side to Christmas, in order to participate fully in
the great feast of the Nativity; the entire family had to be in the State of
Grace. On the afternoon of Christmas Eve we would make our way to the Cathedral
for confession and afterwards there was the joy of the first visit to the
Crib.

In those days the Crib was arranged at the altar of the Blessed Virgin. A
carved, marble figure of the Child Jesus was laid on a pile of yellow
straw. His Mother hovered over him, her long white robes
falling in shadowy folds, her face tender and luminous. On each side of the
altar tall dark fir trees mounted guard over the infant with coloured lights
glimmering in the branches.

The shepherds at Bethlehem were no more enraptured than I was at that moment.
This uniquely Newfoundland version of the Nativity is firmly embedded in my
vision of Christmas.

When I reached home there was another delightful surprise. The supper table was
laid in the Front Room. A bright fire was blazing in the grate. At that time the
vigil of the Feast was a day of fast and abstinence. It was our custom to serve
lobster salad for the meal, lobster at that time selling for forty cents for a
fat, one-pound tin.

The Light Cake held the place of honour and everybody had their first taste of
Christmas Cake for dessert. Altogether there was such an abundance of happiness,
so much warmth and gaiety that I thought my childish heart would burst for
joy.

That was a long, long time ago and everything is different now—so many old
customs abandoned, so many beloved faces missing. If they could come back, what
changes they would see!

My father would be astonished to see that we are now a province of Canada; my
brother would see television for the first time; my sister would know nothing of
computers or the Man on the moon and someone would have to introduce my mother
to the New Liturgy and explain to her that it is now alright to eat meat on
Friday.

Soon now the joy bells will ring out to announce that Midnight Mass is about to
begin. There is a note of sadness in that joyful clamour and old grief’s long
buried but never quite forgotten stir into life.

I look back at that Christmas Eve of my childhood and it is like watching a
miniature scene set in a crystal globe full of falling snow. The snowflakes
settle and there we are, together again, untouched by sorrow and undimmed by
time. The Holy Infant still lies on his bed of yellow straw as we kneel before
him to celebrate the hour and the moment when the Lamb of God came down from
heaven to take away the sins of the world.

by Helen Fogwill Porter

W
HEN WE HANG OUR wreaths and festoons in preparation
for Christmas, the most important one of all is not visible to the eye. Yet all
of us have one such bouquet, unique to ourselves. The flowers may be old and
faded, but they are none the less precious on that account. I’m talking about
our bouquet of Christmas memories.

All of our different bouquets have many features in common. Everybody thinks of
the turkey, the tree, the stockings, the presents, the carols. But I want to
talk about the individual family memories which mean little to outsiders. They
all help to make Christmas the warm, happy family day it is. As I share my own
memories with you I hope it will help you to make up your own private bouquet of
half-forgotten family joys.

At our house Christmas always seemed to start when the first little boy arrived
on our doorstep with his box of rather grimy Christmas cards. These he sold on
commission from a local wholesale business, and sometimes he had a selection of
inexpensive toys as well. Each boy who took on this yearly job felt sure that he
would make his fortune but the sad truth was that, long before the time came for
him to turn over the money to the proprietor, a large proportion of it would be
spent on candy and ice-cream. Then it was Mom and Dad to the rescue, not without
a threat that they would not cover his deficit next year. But next year was
always a long way off.

Anyone who has ever gone to Sunday School will know the
thrill and excitement that comes with preparation for the Christmas concert.
Practices usually began in November and by the middle of December teachers and
parents alike were convinced that this year’s program would be a complete
failure. But when White Gift Sunday rolled around the fragrant smell of
evergreen hung in the air, the children behaved as angelically as they were
attired and everything went off very well. By the time the last sack of flour
had been piled on top of the white gift display to the strains of “As With
Gladness Men of Old” everyone in the church glowed with the feeling that it had
all been worthwhile. The White Gifts have lately been replaced by small white
envelopes in which each child places a sum of money. No doubt the authorities
have found that financial gifts are more practical than various food items.
However, I don’t think we’ll ever recapture the feeling of exultation we all
shared as we brought our white-wrapped gift of raisins, butter or sugar to the
front of the church. We really felt that we were sharing in somebody else’s
Christmas, and making it perhaps a little happier.

If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget the time my sister and I came close
to spoiling the Christmas concert at our church. That particular year teachers
had selected a fairly ambitious pageant as the main item of the program and my
sister and I were given the lengthy speaking parts. For some reason it was
decided that the program would be presented on Sunday night instead of the usual
Sunday afternoon affair. Rehearsals were held, angels’ wings fashioned and all
seemed to be progressing very well. On the afternoon of White Gift Sunday the
two of us were lolling around the house, our hair tightly curled in rags, when
the telephone rang. It was the minister’s daughter and her worried voice almost
stupefied me when she said “Aren’t you coming out to the Church?” It seemed that
somewhere along the line it had been decided to hold an afternoon immediately
and we were more than two miles from the church. One of the male teachers came
for us in his car, arriving before Mother had finished brushing out our
barely-curled hair. We were hauled into the church and pushed into our costumes
in less time than it takes to tell it. If our cheeks and eye were unnaturally
bright the audience probably put it down to the general excitement of Christmas.
We managed to remember our lines and the pageant was quite a success.

House-cleaning has always been a prelude to Christmas in
Newfoundland, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world. My mother always had
hers done in good time, her mouth-watering cakes were ready weeks ahead of time
and even her pudding was made days in advance of Christmas. But my father has
always been a different proposition. He answered mother’s pleas to “please paint
the bedroom ceiling” or “When are you going to put down the linoleum in the
hall?” with the happy-go-lucky statement “There is plenty of time.” And so the days passed while he
chuckled over a good book or pounded out an intricately worded letter on his
typewriter. But, as the big day drew nearer, he always started to feel a little
uncomfortable about the state of the house and he fell to work with vigour. The
only drawback was that there just wasn’t enough time for him to get all the jobs
done. Somehow, Christmas Eve always came before the
stairs
were varnished. Perhaps that’s why my brothers and sisters and I always claim
that the smell of fresh varnish makes us nostalgic for the Christmas Eves of
long ago. For, when we finally made our way to bed, breathless with excitement
at the prospect of the next day’s treasures, there would be weary Dad,
admonishing us not to walk off the stair treads or touch the rail. The shining
perfection of the stairway, still gleaming in its wetness, holds just as
important a place in my bouquet of memories as the glittering tree or the annual
baby doll.

Speaking of dolls, is any little girl’s Christmas complete without one? I had
received a daintily dressed, curly-haired doll every year up to the time I was
eleven years old and that year, shortly before Christmas I decreed that I didn’t
want a doll this year. Most of my school friends were getting wrist-watches, and
I felt that the possession of one would be the ultimate in glamour. In the back
of my mind there lurked a sneaking suspicion that I might get both items, but I
was afraid to suggest it. Well, on Christmas Eve the presents came down from my
grandmother, who lived just up the road. We were always allowed to open her
gifts on Christmas Eve, partly because our parents were as anxious to see them
as we were. As soon as I saw the small, flat box with my name on it I knew I had
my watch, but my heart felt curiously heavy. I put it down without even opening
it and watched my five-year-old sister excitedly tearing the wrappings off her
big baby doll. I can see it now, golden-haired and beautiful, in a lovely dress
and bonnet of blue organdy. Without warning I burst into tears. I was heartily
ashamed of myself but I couldn’t seem to stop. My parents seemed to know what
the trouble was but they said nothing. When my father tucked me in bed that
night he bent close to my ear and said “Pray hard for a doll like Margie’s and
you don’t know what might happen.” I did just that and the next morning I awoke
to find a doll exactly like my sister’s except that it was dressed in pink. To
this day I can’t be sure where the doll came from, but I expect frantic
conniving on my parents’ part. Luckily for me, at that time the stores were open
quite late on Christmas Eve.

At our house even more energy and effort were expended in preparing for New
Year’s Day than for Christmas Day. We children found it rather an anticlimax
after Christmas although we always clamoured to be allowed to stay up until
twelve o’clock on New Year’s Eve to “see the New Year in.”
But
for our grown-ups, New Year’s Day was The Day. For it was the one day in all the
year when two very important relatives came to dinner. They were my great-aunt
and an even older lady whose relationship to us was rather hazy. They always
arrived in mid-morning, had dinner with us and departed at about four o’clock in
the afternoon to have supper with our cousins down the road.

On New Year’s Eve preparations were frantic and furious. The whole house had to
be cleaned again, a new stock of delicacies made and there was also the giant
turkey to prepare. The two old ladies held decided views on the consumption of
alcoholic liquors, and the men of the house were admonished to sweeten their
breaths and stay away from the stuff while our two elderly relatives were
present. The older of the two claimed that tobacco smoke makes her sick, so the
pipes, cigars and cigarettes were carefully hidden away with the bottles.

After dinner, while the women were cleaning up, it fell to the lot of us
youngsters to entertain the two visitors. Our great-aunt was a lover of games
(not cards, of course, but brainy games like anagrams). One of us would
challenge her to a contest of some kind and the rest of us would be left to
entertain the even more ancient lady who always proclaimed proudly that she “had
never played a game in her life.” She was very deaf and, to save our throats we
usually let her do most of the talking. This was not difficult, for in her day
she had been a great Sunday-School worker and she enjoyed telling us of past
glory and quoting temperance rhymes she had composed. It was hard to maintain an
expression of intense interest in her conversation, for we had heard all her
stories many times before. Then, too, my young brothers were very skillful at
making us laugh while keeping dead-serious faces themselves. I look back on New
Year’s afternoon as being the longest one in the year.

After we had finally seen the two visitors off late in the afternoon, the house
began to hum. My uncle dived for the “drop o’ stuff, ” my grandfather dug out
the tobacco and my father hurried to the kitchen for a fresh supply of glasses.
By this time, Mother and my aunt had collapsed on their beds in a state of
complete exhaustion. I’ll never forget the dreadful day when just as the three
men were sitting around the table with glasses raised, the room thick with
smoke, the door opened and my great-aunt came back for the glove she had
forgotten.

Three jaws dropped when she came into the room, and it’s a
lucky thing the glasses didn’t as well, for they were our best ones. Everybody
started to talk at once but the old lady saved the situation by saying, with a
twinkle in her frosty blue eyes “You might offer me one, boys.” We always
considered it fortunate that the other aged relative had stayed behind at my
cousins’ house. It would have been too sad for her to find that her years of
quoting temperance poetry had had so little effect on the men of our
family.

Of course, all our memories are not happy ones. I think of Christmas during the
war, when black-out curtains hid gay Christmas lights and sad news from overseas
dampened the brightest spirits. There was one Christmas Day when my sailor
cousin, who had lived with us, was missing, and although we all tried to
maintain a cheerful demeanour, the atmosphere was strained and tense. In fact,
we were all glad when it was over. A few nights later, however, we heard a
familiar step in the hallway, and we all ran out to see a tired-eyed but smiling
young man, clad in sneakers and woollies provided by the Red Cross, standing
there with a duffle-bag in his hand. There was wild rejoicing that night, and
the next day we celebrated Christmas as it had been impossible to do on the
twenty-fifth. We learned that my cousin’s ship had been torpedoed on his
birthday, December 16th, and he had swum for hours in icy waters before being
rescued. His Christmas dinner, eaten on board the rescue ship, had consisted of
beef and potatoes but we made sure that a feast of fat things was set before him
the day after his arrival. That, I think, was our most thankful Christmas.

Now I must get back to hanging my Christmas decorations. But you may be sure
that, glittering and gorgeous as they may be, nothing will mean quite as much to
me as the bouquet of Christmas memories that exists in my heart. I feel sure
there’s one in yours, too.