My Best Childhood Christmas

Christmas Elf: Caught in the Act . . .

It started out ordinarily enough.

Dad waving from the driveway as he started the long drive to Lethbridge to begin his Christmas shopping.

I should point out, here, that Dad always began and ended his shopping on the same day.

Christmas Eve.

He had a thing about children sneaking into his closet to peek at presents.

Not that I ever did.

Personally, I think it had something to do with his own childhood and his own childhood foibles and tendencies.

Ahem.

We waved happily to him, then went back to helping Mom with the Christmas baking.

Our duties were carefully delineated.

She mixed.

We watched.

She finished mixing and dug out cookie sheets and baking pans.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and began to spoon/scrape.

We waited.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and finished spooning/scraping.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We licked the bowl.

Literally.

She shooed us away and started again.

She mixed.

We watched . . .

You get the picture.

But when pans started coming out of the oven, yet another duty was added to the roster.

Tasting the now-baked deliciousness.

And so it went.

Everyone had their responsibilities clearly outlined.

And we did them whole-heartedly.

No slackers in this bunch.

Sometimes, though, baked goodies actually made their way past the ravening hordes children to the fancy Christmas platters set out to receive them.

Not often, I will admit, but frequently enough that we realized what those platters were for.

But I digress . . .

Other duties included:

1. Hiding when the baking was finished and clean up was indicated.
2. Giggling loudly during hide-age.
3. Sitting under the tree and periodically shaking/squeezing packages.
4. Teasing younger siblings that Santa Claus would never be able to find our ranch.
5. Re-arranging Christmas ornaments.
6. Breaking said ornaments.
7. Hiding again . . . because.

It was a busy day.

Mostly for my Mom, but why haggle over details?

Finally, just as we were getting ready to climb into bed for the long, sleepless night, we would hear Dad's car pull into the driveway.

And then would begin another whole round of excited children doing the dance of joy.

Sleep was further away than ever.

But, finally, we were herded into our beds and the doors firmly shut against peekage/sneakiness.

The wait was on.

I shared a room with my younger brother, Blair and my younger sister, Anita.

Somehow, I managed to keep them bottled up until some of us (not me) were ready to fizz over.

About 5 AM.

We could wait no longer.

Now the rule in the Stringam household was 'Look, but don't touch until Mom and Dad's feet hit the living room floor'.

On this particular Christmas, looking was especially exciting.

Because Dad had strewn his gifts over the living room floor.

The entire living room floor.

From the soft light of the Christmas tree, we were able to make out strange, long objects arranged at intervals from the doorway all the way to the tree itself.

What could they be?

We knelt down, trying to get a better view.

Weird.

Had he opened a crate of something and left the boards flung about like flotsam?

Normally such behavior was reserved for the younger set.

Double weird.

Just when we were ready to burst with the excitement and curiosity, we heard our parents make their way up the hall towards us.

Finally!

Dad reached around the corner and snapped on the light.

Our eyes were glued to the newly-revealed treasures.

Skis!

The entire floor was littered with skis!

Beside each carefully arranged set of skis were a pair of poles and leather ski boots.

We hopped and skipped carefully around the room, checking name tags and finally settling beside the set that bore ours.

Mine were blue.

With long, silver poles.

And black leather ski boots.

I don't remember what else I got that year (sorry, Family).

Nothing could compare with my shiny new and wondrous skis.

Then I discovered that the excitement didn't end there.

The rest of Dad's gift included a week-long family skiing trip to The Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

The first of many such trips.

And the beginning of a whole new chapter for the Stringams.

Yup. The best Christmas ever.

Now, it's your turn. What was your best childhood Christmas ever?

Mrs. Santa's Panties By Grant Tolley

In recent months I have taken to walking during my lunch hour. 

Walking is my favourite form of just plain old exercise. A holdover, I guess, from my Boy Scout days when I always enjoyed hiking in the mountains and following a long trail through the forests and the trees.

But I digress already.

My noon-hour constitutionals take me most days to a shopping plaza that is about 2 ½ kilometres away from my office – I'm glad to say that I quite enjoy walking 5 kilometres or so most every day. 

For me it is the most natural thing in the world to do, and the most healthy.

When I get to the shopping plaza, I often visit the bank there.

I usually have to put some money into the bank so that they can keep operating.

Ahem! 

When I am not paying penance to the bankers, I sometimes wander through one or more of the commercial establishments. 

Now I should say that I am not much of a shopper-for-the-sake-of-shopping. But in recent years – since the marriages of my children and the arrival of an increasing gaggle of grand-kids – that I have taken to just wandering through stores, casually watching for a bargain on something that one or the other of them would like or could put to good use. 

So I buy it, and salt it away in my joint-occupancy-with-my-Beloved closet, which holds most everything except what a closet is normally supposed to hold.

So the other day, I had found a small item or two, which I had cradled in my arms (having being either too short-sighted or just plain stupid enough not to have picked up a shopping basket) – and I headed to the cash register. 

Now you must understand that this was the first really cold day of our winter, so I had on my bulky winter jacket, accompanied by dis-en-handed gloves which I held in one hand, holding the several items I needed to pay for, and then trying to fish my wallet out of a pants pocket that just happened to be underneath all of the above, and encumbered further by a set of keys and a blackberry, all not-so-neatly crammed into the same pocket. 

I don’t have a clue who the idiot was who put all that stuff there.

Needless to say, standing at the cash register, I was delayed somewhat on my wallet-fishing expedition, which held up the line of people behind me. 

One of my own pet peeves! 

People who wait in line for 20 minutes to pay for their purchases, then wait until the cashier says “Twenty-eight dollars and two cents, please”, before they even start looking for their wallet or opening their purse.

And then inevitably not finding it.

Especially in a purse – in my Beloved’s purse, her cheque-book usually ends up hiding right underneath the kitchen sink.

But I digress again . . . . 

I am sometimes annoyed by those persons – and now I find that I are one! 

Begorrah!

A woman behind me starts talking. 

To me. 

I keep fishing, more hurriedly, figuring that she is like me, and I am annoying her by delaying the line. I drop my gloves. 

I stoop to pick them up – and drop one of my purchases out of my arms. 

The woman laughs. 

Laughs! 

At me! 

And keeps talking. 

I’m not hearing much of what she says, because my eyes are on the floor – not literally, but almost -- and my ears can’t seem to work at the same time that my eyes do under duress. 

I toss my gloves onto the counter, stoop to pick up the dropped item – oops, make that now “items” -- which I quickly scoop up and throw onto the counter.

Whereupon one skids to the other side of the counter and falls, again, at the feet of the cashier.

“I’m sorry,” I say generally, hoping to include both the cashier and chattering Mom-like lady behind me.

And then I notice: Chattering Mom-Lady is smiling -- and still laughing! 

And then, with my eyes back in their sockets, I stop to listen.

Amidst chuckles, Mom-Lady is saying to me, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens! Every time I get into a rush, that happens! Why it happened to me just the other day, and I bent over to pick up the new underwear . . . . “

My mind starts racing . . . . Is this going to be one of those way-too-much-information-from-a-total-stranger type of stories?

“. . . and when I finally bent my back upright again – that floor is a loooong ways down there, these days . . . ." – she points to her rumpled grey hair doing a good job of escaping from underneath a too-small-for-so-much-hair, Canadian-flag touque -- “I turned to the guy behind me and tried to give him the panties that I had just picked up off the floor, and I told him, “You dropped your boxers, Sonny!” And he just about fell over laughing!”

I smile, as a jolly guffaw that reminds me of one of Santa Claus’ rolling belly-laughs rises up through Mom-Lady and shines out through her face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I mutter in an attempt at an apology.

“Oh my heavens!” says Mom-Lady, to me and the world in general. “I'm not in any hurry, Son! You just take your time.”

Fifty-six years old, and she calls me “son”.

“Thanks,” I mutter again. “You’re very patient.”

By this time I have successfully completed my fishing expedition, the cashier has completed the transaction, and I am attempting to put on my gloves and retrieve all my shopping bags. There is one left on the cashier’s counter that I don’t quite know how I'm going to retrieve.

“Can I help you there?” Mom-Lady queries.

Having only two fingers left on which a shopping bag could be hung, I turn to Mom-Lady and, pointing with my last two fingers at the last bag on the counter, say to her, “Would you mind handing me my panties there?”

Mom-Lady guffaws, long and loud. I'm afraid we might have to call 9-1-1. 

The cashier is laughing. As are two or three people in the line-up behind us.

Between rumbles of laughter, Mom-Lady hooks the last bag on my last two fingers, and says: “You have a great Christmas, son.”

“And you too, Mom” I reply through my smile.

Son. She called me “son”, and she couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than me. My hair was just as grey as hers. And even more rumpled.

As I think about Mom-Lady on my walk back to my office – arms loaded with shopping bags, for 2 ½ kilometres – I think, what a genuine human being! What a wonderful person! 

Where so many others might have been consumed by Queue Rage – or Road Rage – or Airplane Rage, or so many other of the non-existent syndromes that we have invented as an excuse to be rude and impolite and impatient and unkind – how very nice it is to encounter whom and what I regard as a genuine, true, Gentle-Woman.

Might Santa Claus bring us many more – this year and every year.

New Coat! Oh, and Christmas Tree . . .

Clockwise from right: Aly (Hired man's son),
Anita, Blair, and Me - in my little gold beauty.

It wasn't often that we kids were able to go on a field trip with my Dad.

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic.

Exuberant.

Exhilarated.

Elated.

Euphoric.

Electrified.

That's all of the 'E' words I can think of.

Except that 'energetic' should be stuck in there somewhere.

And, for me, usually immediately followed by, "Empty all tanks!"

When I think about it, I guess it's not surprising that we didn't go on field trips with my Dad very often.

Back to my story . . .

Dad was taking us four oldest kids to the Sweetgrass Hills to cut down our family's Christmas tree.

It was the 50's.

Families did things like that back then.

But we had to make a quick stop in Milk River at the Robinson's store to get me a winter coat.

I had outgrown my old one and Dad wasn't excited about trailing me through the forest wrapped in my blanket.

Go figure.

So the excitement level for this trip had just been dialed way up.

In fact, I was so elated, that Dad didn't even wait for the 'announcement' (see above), but sat me in the car with a bucket already in my lap.

Smart man.

We made the 20 miles to Milk River without incident. (see above . . . again.)

And entered the store.

I should explain here that the Robinson's Store was the only shop in Milk River that featured clothing.

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

And if you were really lucky, you got to watch Theo Barrows gift wrap packages at her counter in the middle of the store.

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

Dad asked the manager where we could find coats in my size and was conducted, with me tagging eagerly behind, to a rack at one side of the store.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a gold, furry, wonderful garment.

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh!

"This one, Daddy! This one!"

"Okay, we'll try this one," Dad said.

I dropped my blanket and slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Perfect!

"I guess we'll take it," Dad said.

Good thing, too, because there was no way they were ever going to pry me out of that coat.

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

The other kids excited now to get to the real reason for this trip.

Me brushing and brushing the soft fur on my arms and chest.

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

Me and my coat were happy, sitting in the car together.

And watching through the windshield.

Because, after all - one couldn't wear one's new coat out into nature!

What if it got soiled?

Later:
Blair (in my now-outgrown coat), and Anita
The original recycling program

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.

But who listened?

Mitten to the Rescue

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!
Photo credit: polarbearstale.blogspot.com

We were shopping.

I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity.

I need a really good excuse.

It was Christmas.

Okay, a really good excuse . . .

My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Grant. Their Dad, my Sweetheart.

The hardest person to shop for.

After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools.

My husband's favourite place on earth.

Really.

It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.

But I digress . . .

We set out.

It was December.

Winter.

In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow.

Ask anyone.

But avoid those with chattering teeth.

Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.

Or understood.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.

At first, things went well.

A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.

We made it into the city.

And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.

Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.

The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.

But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost.

This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.

Or, if you are my husband, by opening the window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.

It's all about timing.

And coordination.

Neither of which I have.

And both of which were to be needed shortly.

Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield.

Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in.

Total time wasted? Hours.

Okay, well, it seemed like hours.

There must be a better way.

I would try Grant's method!

It was genius!

When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.

I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)

Closer. Closer.

There!

I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.

Snap!

Okay, that didn't sound good.

As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done.

The blade was still in my hand.

I had snapped the entire thing off it's arm.

Umm . . . oops?

The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white.

Well, half of it at any rate.

Unfortunately, it was the driver's half.

Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.

And usually, the driver does.

Something needed to be done.

And there was no one but me to do it.

Rats!

Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side.

Okay. Now I could see.

That's important.

But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering for the lack of wiper-age.

Hmm.

I looked around.

Our options were . . . limited.

“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.

My daughter holding up her red mitten.

I stared at it.

Huh. Might work.

I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceed to tie it to the other wiper arm.

There.

Perfect.

We switched on the wipers.

Wipe.

Wipe.

It worked!

Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.

I don't have to tell you how it looked.

In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.

But it worked.

We finished our trip.

Shopping done. Purchases made.

Van safely parked back on the driveway.

And Grant replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.

Stupid thing.

The wiper, not Grant.

I learned several things from this:

1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.

Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:

1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.

Wait, I did learn something!

Yes, I know it's summer.

But it's also Canada.

Pack your mittens!

An Attitude of Gratitude

Admit it, you'd love for someone
to make this for you !

I'm weird.

I do weird things.

I've accepted it.

Moving on . . .

I had taken my three-year-old granddaughter to The Mall.

The big mall. The one that covers many city blocks and holds many, many stores and attractions.

And several hundreds of thousands of people.

It is bright. Entertaining. Noisy.

And, at times, crowded.

Kids love it there.

Parents tolerate it.

Older people ignore the enticement of 'modern shopping gone mad' and use it as an indoor track.

'People-dodging' has become an accepted, even sought for work-out.

With all these people and attractions vying (real word) for our attention, it is only understandable that some . . . gentility might get lost.

Let me explain . . .

My granddaughter and I were waiting for my son to finish an interview.

We were hungry.

The choices were, truly, endless.

She chose McDonald's.

Because.

We ordered from a smiling young man. Chicken pieces for her.

Salad for me.

We found a booth and started eating.

Now, I should point out here that, for the most part, I like McDonald's food.

Not gourmet, but tasty and satisfying.

Even with those expectations, my salad was a very pleasant surprise.

It was good.

Really good.

In fact, probably one of the best salads I had ever eaten.

Crisp where it should be crisp. Cheesy where it should be cheesy. Olive-y where it should . . . you get the picture.

I looked at the brightly illustrated billboard to recall what I had ordered.

Ah. Mediterranean salad.

Huh.

I finished.

And licked the bowl.

Okay, not quite, but I have to admit that I was certainly tempted.

My granddaughter finished her meal.

"Come with me, Sweetie." I took her hand and walked back to the counter.

A young woman was standing there, smiling brightly.

I went up to her. "Hello. May I please speak to the manager?"

Her smile . . . slipped . . . somewhat.

"Umm . . . yes?" She started to slide down the counter away from me.

I followed. Finally, "Are you the manager?"

She nodded hesitantly, by now, her smile all but gone.

"Oh, good. Well I have to tell you that I just ordered your Mediterranean salad," I pointed, "and it is probably the best salad I've tasted in my life. Thank you."

She stared at me. Finally, my words must have sunk in, because, suddenly, her face lit up.

Really. With the biggest smile I had ever seen.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, rather breathlessly.

The boy who had served us our meal suddenly appeared from the 'food' part of the establishment, where it would seem he had been hiding, and presented me with an equally large smile.

"Thank you!" he said.

I smiled at them and left.

I have to tell you that this isn't an unusual thing for me to do.

It started when I saw the movie, "Heaven Can Wait", with Warren Beatty.

In one scene, he gets up from the very formal meal, served by his army of servants, and pushing open the kitchen door, hollers, "Thanks for dinner!" or something like that.

Now I had been raised to always compliment and thank my mother, or whoever had prepared my food in ours or someone else's home. I had just never taken it to the next level.

Thanking and complimenting someone you haven't even met. 

Or seen.

I decided to try it.

With amazing results.

I've now been doing it for years.

Almost without fail, I receive surprised, but enthusiastic smiles.

And gratitude.

It's a simple thing.

A smile, a compliment, and a thank you.

It might put some much-needed sunshine into someone's day.

I know it did that day, in that crowded mall.

Into mine.