Category Archives: Christmas

A Noun and a Verb

 

 

To examine Elizabeth Hay’s wonderful book called All Things Consoled is to gaze at the nature of the word itself. Anyone facing grief, or dealing with the difficulties of aging parents, or struggling with the reconciliation of old beefs, and the nature of letting go, will understand that grief is massively challenging.  Caring friends may ask us how we are progressing. We will always come up blank. We can try to find peace, to achieve closure, to move on in our lives, but just when we feel we are making some headway, the past circles back, and there we are crying in the car when a sad song comes on the radio. We don’t get over things. At least, that is my experience. As I learned on the long canoe trips of my youth, the pack you portage gets a little lighter every day. That best describes my progress or lack thereof.

All Things Consoled reads like a diary of the journey. It felt as if I was in her family with her, and I could see it all as clear as a bell. It is the great joy of my life to have so many experiences, so many connections, and so many travels all taking place within the bounds of my quite elastic imagination. A recent class with Margaret Atwood asked me to consider how to evoke emotions in the reader. Her statement landed like a direct hit. That is the trick of it.

Elizabeth Hay managed to evoke memories of all the irritating moments where you want to scream, but know that would be very unwise. By using her considerable skill to put me in her mother’s kitchen, I was transported back to the fifties when as a young girl, I experienced first hand, the holdover of the depression years, and the need not to waste food. Two characters, named willful and woeful were given little dishes covered in wax paper and then saran wrap before it found its cling, two measly bites that must be saved, less “Willful waste brings woeful want.” In my mother’s case, the sensibility only applied to food, a contradiction we often pointed out. Hay’s mother’s endearing obsession had me thinking back with great affection to my mother’s old pink fridge at our summer cottage on Lake Joseph in Ontario.

As for the father, although they were vastly different kinds of men, there were similarities there too. Punishment, as meted out to children in our time, could be harsh. Micheal Ondaatje in Warlight wrote that to write a memoir is to be an orphan. Surely there are great hurdles. One wants to get close to the truth, but one loathes to tell it. Idealize the whole family and write a rosy tale where all skeletons are swept dutifully under the carpet, does not come off as believable. To reveal all is sometimes too painful for anyone to read. How to get it just right must be the greatest challenge ever. It is not uncommon for some to write more than one memoir, because side stories and different issues keep popping up.
They will keep on coming too because the heart of the story, the telling of it, is a journey. In the case of All Things Consoled, the reader comes away with great respect for the author. She found the right note, and she managed to achieve a balance with her parent’s foibles and her own. We, too, can relate to their struggles and feel compassion for them as the frailty of old age crept in. Memorable characters, evocatively brought to light, makes this a great read.

From Page 233:

“The instinct to make art had abandoned her, but not the instinct to save food. She could not pass the communal fruit bowl in the lobby without her hand reaching out like a raccoon’s for apples and oranges, which she slipped into the basket of her walker and wheeled to her room. We took to calling her the fruit tree, self-grafting, everbearing. Her little fridge groaned with what she salted away. Every few days I emptied it into a canvas bag, assuring her that nothing would go to waste. Then I would stop by the kitchen on my way out of the building and put the food in the garbage and the napkins into the laundry bag and the plates on the counter. I stopped at the famous fruit bowl and returned apples and oranges.”

How this passage makes me anxious! I think of my parents with great affection at Christmas time. We were so lucky to not know real want, a fact my Mom pointed out constantly. Elizabeth Hay helped to console me, for I will always miss them. As we always gave books as gifts, and Boxing Day meant cracking open a great new read, with a personal inscription on the title page, I still have bits of them with me in my library. As for the living room, I have their console tables too.

Christmas is my Culture

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After spending a few cozy days snowed in here on Windy Bay, I had time to enjoy this winter wonderland. With many hours in which to contemplate the joys of Christmas, I indulged in all the nostalgia and emotion of the season. As is true with just about everyone, my mind returned to childhood memories. I credit my parents and grandparents, and all of their many efforts to make Christmas magical and wonderful. We sat at long tables wearing paper crowns from Christmas crackers in the English tradition and reveled in feasts ending in plum pudding and butter sauce we thought might kill one of us someday, but that did not stop us from consuming it until we groaned for mercy.

Don’t look back, some say. It is not the way you are going. Yes, there is wisdom to this line of thinking, but Christmas is a time of permission. I, for one, eat it up. We seek a deeper connection at this time of year, a strengthening of bonds of love. When I take out my maternal grandmother’s Christmas village and unpack this little hand- made world, I feel as if I am seven and wishing I lived in a pretty village where the houses and churches sit atop a blanket of snow. In all my years in Coeur d’ Alene, I often think of how funny it is that I practically re-created that charming village in choosing such a charming town in which to live. Shopping in the local shops on Sherman Avenue is a tradition I cherish. Our tree now comes from our own woods; the ornaments are old and worn but carry happy memories for us. We have always tried to keep things somewhat simple, but by Christmas Eve, we often shake our heads. It is a time for celebration after all, and yes, we always give books.

In the years I worked at Coldwater Creek, Christmas was a blitz from start to finish. We employees shored each other up, shared goodies, hot tea, and boiler- plate coffee in order to keep going. We tracked packages and agonized over mix-ups. We wrote apology letters and often received replies. I signed company letters with Merry Christmas and thought I would keep doing so until someone asked me not to. They never did. I sent cards with the same message, and yes, to friends of different faiths and traditions. I knew from growing up in a multi-cultural city, chock full of new immigrants from around the globe, that culture is passed from mother to daughter, from father to son, and from grandparents to grandchildren. There is plenty of room at the table. I witnessed so many hold fast to their traditions while embracing a new land.

Christmas is my culture. It is a part of who I am. It is a time of wonder. That is how I aim to keep it.

Devoid of any anger, lacking in perceived threat or guile, I say, Merry Christmas to readers around the world.

“God bless us, everyone.” Charles Dickens.

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Thoughts on Christmas

The snow is falling on a slant in big, crowded flakes over Windy Bay. We had fog this morning, and then rain, and finally snow, all pointing to a cozy day inside. Christmas cards and wrapping gifts can wait. I want to think about Christmas.

snowy Idaho

We used to do so much running around. The first year America shopped online, I worked for Coldwater Creek on the web team. Terrified of the Internet, people would call and ask if they were online. We would politely have to reply that they were still on the telephone. At first, everyone forgot their passwords, but we could look them up. “That is my dog’s name,” they would say.

 

As the days progressed, the anxiety and stress would increase, and yes, sometimes the call center agents, myself included, would be on the receiving end of a lot of harsh words and yelling. We had to ask if the customer would care to share their email address.
Most responded with, “Certainly not.”
With each increasing year, online shopping became more of the norm. During those years, we scrambled to keep up with the volume of business, and we did everything in our power to keep the customers happy. We were proud to work for a company founded by good people and housed in the beautiful town of Sandpoint, Idaho.

Codwater Creek Store

Sometimes, between calls, my fellow agents and I would commiserate. We bonded. We talked a lot about the meaning of Christmas. It sure didn’t seem like we were hearing it. If packages had yet to arrive, if something did not live up to their expectations, or God forbid, the wrong item got into the box, we had to hear about it. We would wonder what happened to the idea of an old- fashioned Christmas with good food and even better good cheer?

We look back; we look around, and we look forward. We think about the story. It is one of the greatest ever told. As a child, it used to make me wonder why Joseph did not start our earlier, why did Mary have to be dragged along if she was having a baby, why didn’t some nice person give up their room at the Inn so that she could have a bed? Why weren’t they better prepared? Times were different, my Mom said. She was glad she had all of us in a hospital.

On Christmas Eve, in the city of Toronto, we gathered around the radio, listening for the first reports. They came from the military. As the sky turned dark, regular programming would be interrupted with a news bulletin. A sighting! Clearly visible from NORAD bases in the far north, a sleigh, flying through the pitch black sky pulled by reindeer, he was on his way! Santa’s journey had begun. We had the cookies and the milk ready. Why were there two Christmas stories, I wondered?

santa

On Christmas Day, we looked forward to another tradition. My mother insisted we eat breakfast in the dining room with good china and silver, bacon, eggs, toast and fresh orange juice. It seemed to go on forever, but when we finished eating, we gathered by the radio to hear the Queen. She reminded us, year after year, every year of my life to date, that we should focus on serving others. Wherever we happened to be in the Commonwealth, she wanted to wish us all a happy Christmas with our families and to be mindful of those in need. She was right, is right, and will always be right.

There is meaning. There is hope. There is kindness in this world, and there is love. Stress? Who needs it? What we could use is more of the story and more peace.