
I asked my wife for a topic idea suitable for today’s column. She suggested I write some personal stuff about Christmas. Who would care to read that?, I thought.
So, advance warning, there is no legal advice in today’s column.
My father described Christmas on the farm near Bruno, Saskatchewan in the late 1930s and early 1940s. He said Santa didn’t come down the chimney. Presents would be discovered outside the front door after Santa knocked.
He remembered one special Christmas when the box contained one of the best gifts he ever received—a wonderful wooden toy tank.
The paint hadn’t quite dried because Santa’s elves had just finished it. Sometime later, he learned his older brother made it for him.
Each of the many children—he had 10 brothers and sisters—received a bag of nuts. Not the shelled and salted variety, but the ones nutcrackers were made for. Their mother would play some sort of game with each of the kids, using the nuts as betting currency. Somehow, she would invariably win all the nuts from the kids. My grandmother then used those nuts to bake them into nut breads and whatnot.
(On a side note, I’m reminded of a camping trip with my dad when I was a lad. My brother and I were not treated to much to candy as kids. As an unusually delectable treat, my dad picked up a bag of dehydrated banana chips. We played a card game, called “smear,” for the banana chips and of course my dad won them all. But he gave them all back to me.
Just like his mother did for him, he taught me a lesson about gambling without actually taking anything away.)
My brother and I were raised without Santa Claus. Our folks explained that they didn’t want to lie to us, which I appreciated. They also found the commercialism of Christmas distasteful, each of them having worked as missionaries in Third World countries earlier in their lives. But we enjoyed wonderful Christmases.
Our Christmas Eve tradition was an incredible apple strudel. It started with a large and very thinly rolled and pulled sheet of dough. It was so thin you could see through it. That was covered with goodness that included apple slices, butter, brown sugar, bread crumbs, etc., and then rolled into a thick, crescent shape that was baked to the point that apple syrup oozed out and made a bit of a candied crust on the bottom.
It was served with ice cream and was the most exquisite dinner.
Strudel dinner was followed by a few carols. My brother and I took piano lessons and provided the accompaniment.
And then the presents, though ours were very modest. Typically, one significant gift each. I remember one year we got housecoats, which we were very happy with. Another year, we had an aunt and uncle visiting. My brother and I were each surprised with our opulent gifts—one of us got an electric train and the other an electric race set.
We learned there were some firm discussions with our parents pushing our aunt and uncle to return the items to the store. I’m grateful our parents conceded that debate.
What I’d do to have my mother, father and brother with me around the piano again to sing a few carols. I feel a little choked up just thinking about it.
A dozen years ago, my eldest daughter Cassidy helped me attempt a revival of the strudel. It didn’t turn out quite how I remember, but it triggered many warm feelings and was delicious. I think I’ll dig up the recipe again this season.
For those of you who made it this far, thank you for your interest in my mismatch of memories. I wish you the very best of the season, whatever your beliefs and traditions happen to be.
This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.