A Boy's Christmas

 

Mrs. King, my Home room teacher, is getting us to write about an important time of the year that we think is special. She feels that remembering those things is positive and helpful for people. It builds character. I don’t know what all that means, but if we do a good job, we won’t have to take the English exam, so I’m writing about Christmas.

Today is December 2, 1979. My name is John. I am fifteen years old. We don’t use last names, don’t know why. I have a brother, James. He is my twin. I mention him because the things I describe, he is also involved. Linda and Gail are my older sisters. We live with our parents, Earl and Julia, in the village of Nelson, New Brunswick. It seems the same as other villages, but I don’t know. I lived nowhere else. A lot of people work at the nearby pulp and paper mills. Many poor families remain. We don’t live in a mansion, but we got it pretty good.

I’m going to start my story here. That other stuff Mrs. King calls background, and she says it is important. Christmas means much to our family and neighbours. It’s way different from what goes on in the cities you see on TV. There are no big shopping places. Kmart and Zellers are the biggest. There aren’t any fancy restaurants. At The Queensway in Newcastle, you can sit down and enjoy delicious burgers and fries. Dad says we may not be dollar-rich, but we have lots of what counts. Anyway, back to my story.

 

 

 

We get ready for the season in mid-October with our family making meat pies. They are not just any meat pies. They are tourtières, a French-Canadian dish, made with minced pork, veal or beef, wild game and potatoes. My grandmother (Mom’s mother) is an Acadian. She taught her children learned to make them. Now we are another generation keeping a tradition alive. Mom buys meat at the Coop store because there is more choice and it’s cheaper. James and I set rabbit snares in late October after a full moon frost. We usually get a few and put them in our home freezer. Rabbit meat is tender and tastes great.

On a Friday night, in early November, Mom brings out the crank grinder, which has been in our family’s house for generations. The cast-iron design is perfect for its one purpose. Mom arranges the fresh meat on the counter. We cut each piece into one-inch cubes. She watches the operation like a Sargent Major. After cubing, we take turns adding the pieces to the grinder and turning the handle. It’s tiring after a while.

 Two large pots are pre–heated on the stove. Potatoes from our garden are cut up and boiled. Mom puts in onions, summer savoury and spices in amounts she figures from experience. During the two to three hours of cooking, the delicious aroma swirls around the kitchen.

The cooking extravaganza happens on a weekend, so we get to stay up late and help. Most times, we crank out thirty pies. That is a lot of work, but we have plenty of laughs. When the cooking job is done and everything is cleaned, we are ready to hit the hay. Mom prepares the pastry late into the night. We tried to do it, but it kept coming apart, so she gave up showing us. She makes moulding and rolling the pastry look easy. Meat pies filled the counter space and the table when we came down for breakfast.

 

 

After the pies cooled, we printed “Merry Christmas” on labels; Gail does this because she’s the best printer. We fill the chest freezer in the back porch and the one in the refrigerator. The second big part of our Christmas planning happens in mid-November. That is when James and me go tipping. I don’t mean like in Newfoundland, where kids sneak at night and tip cows over while they’re sleeping. I just thought of that. Kinda dumb but funny. Fir tips, used for wreath-making, are what we get. The woods are just across the road. We use the big Ski-Doo that Dad has for his work as a forest ranger. He sometimes needs to find lost or injured people. He trained us in orienteering and survival skills.

When choosing fir trees, we look for ones with many healthy branches and soft tips. To keep the trees growing healthy, we prune branches at different heights. To reach the top, someone must climb the tree. James is smaller. He can scramble like a cat and I’m not keen on going up too high. I think it’s true that twins are closer than regular brothers and sisters. We watch out for each other and seem to know what the other is thinking.

We bring the fir branches and some white pine boughs home and put them on the back porch where it’s cold. They stay fresh. Mom and her sisters use the boughs to make wreaths. The tradition began with our aunt Ovilda. She learned it from her older neighbour. Our house gets lively when Mom and her sisters come for wreath night. Mom sets out a big feed with clam chowder and a lot of sweets. They enjoyed conversation and laughter. They finished decorating, laughing as they left.

 

 

 

The next day, we get the boughs of white pine that we collected with the fir. We tied the boughs together with a red bow in the middle. Over each downstairs doorway frame, we put the decorations. We placed the wreaths in the windows overlooking the busy main road. On the bottom centre of each, we attach a small clip-on battery light. They look nice and the fresh smell of fir and pine is everywhere.

The third big preparation for us explains why we made all those meat pies. My parents are active in our church. Folks here are not poor, but some families have a hard time getting by. The Coop displays a Christmas food drive notice near mid-November, alongside a donation bin. Someone makes a gift list. My father and some villagers know who is having a rough time. A week before Christmas, they collect the groceries and the Coop donates a turkey for each family. That all ends up in the “Front Room” at home. We keep the fancy furniture there for special events, such as Mom’s card parties and visits. Following the list, Dad, Mom, and others fill about twenty-five boxes.

Two days before Christmas, Dad, James, and I load our car for the deliveries. Our old car seems to work better on that day with a magical power. The “sleigh” driver is Dad and I guess we are the elves wearing Christmas stocking hats. We began at nine, handling boxes with care and courtesy when we deliver to the houses.  It’s like Dad says,

“Poverty isn’t pretty boys. Some of these folks may look and sound rough. But remember, that doesn’t make them any less than us.”

We start in the morning to get to all the places in one day. There we are with Dad, drinking from his thermos of hot tea, sometimes wiping the frost off the windshield to help the wheezing defroster. We take turns sitting in the front seat, listening to CKMR radio and belting out Christmas tunes.James and I inspect each house’s box labels. We put the tourtiere on the top, kinda like our special gift to them. It still hits me when I go into the home of a guy or a girl I know from school. I’m nervous but when I see the look of happiness and relief of a parent, I know it’s right.

On Christmas Eve, we drive to the church for Midnight Mass. One hundred years ago, builders constructed our church using stones from a quarry downriver. It has stained glass windows that look nice at night when all the lights are on. James and I do parking attendant stuff before and after Mass. Some folks may have a bit too much cheer and forget how to park, but everybody is in a good mood, so it goes well. Even the choir, which sounds like strangling chickens, kicks it up a notch, and it’s not too bad. After we come back from the Mass, we get to enjoy some of the meat pies. They always taste great, especially with chow. Friends drop by and we have a good time.

On Christmas Day, for supper, we have a big turkey with heaping bowls of snow-white potatoes, steaming hot gravy, carrots and peas. After the grand feast, the adults go to the “Front Room” to enjoy a plate full of Christmas cookies with coffee or tea. We kids help serve people. We don’t mind doing it, even when some folks have too much to drink and act foolish

It takes an hour or so to clear the tables, do the dishes and store leftovers. Our friends who come to the meal help too. Everybody pitches in. After Mom approves the job, we put on our winter gear and head outside. Snowmobiling is popular, and several fellows have them. The river is well frozen, with an excellent base of snow providing traction.

 

 

I’m coming to the end of this essay. I need to produce a good copy to hand in. Gail says that a lad named Steve Jobs invented a “personal computer” that is the size of a textbook. In five years, any family can buy one. Students will type while viewing a screen. Learning that would take me years.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS, Mrs. King

PS: don’t mark this too hard.

 John wrote this school paper over forty-five years ago. He is a grandfather now. But the person and the values behind it have remained unchanged.

 For some fortunate people, youth is a time of growth, spent in a secure family. When health and education work together, people pass on the blessings to their children. This pattern continues throughout the generations of residents in this small community and others in the Miramichi region of New Brunswick.