THE
STAR WEEKLY - Editorial Department
We
return herewith the manuscript which you were kind enough to send us. We are sorry not to be able to make use of it.
Sorry
we cannot use these.
By H.D.
McCorquodale
High River, Alberta
Approximately
1800 words
Submitted
at usual rates.
(this
story was eventually printed and I have photos of a theme of the story that
Sears created for a window display in London, Ontario)
By H.D. McCorquodale
No
one ever entered more spontaneously into the enjoyment of Christmas than
my father, yet I cannot recall that he ever gave one member of his family
a Christmas present - not a real boughten present out of a store. Not that he had any tiresome principles against Christmas
giving, or exchange. If Aunt Mary, or any other
of the multitudinous female relatives, elected to present him with a nice
black tie or a linen handkerchief it didn't get him down in the least, nor
did he feel any obligation to come back with a pair of black kid gloves. He accepted her gift with a twitch of his merry eyebrows,
and let it go at that. He believed in freewill
offerings.
Nowadays any father who does not sacrifice to the uttermost in order to give
his children all sorts of Christmas trinkets is regarded as a callous and
unfeeling parent. But my father did very nicely
and stood high in our esteem without any visible sacrifice. For one thing he was a born celebrator and could
wave his magic wand over everything. He could
make a thrilling event out of a trip to the woods in the old stone boat. He peopled the back roads, the fields, the swamps,
with mystery and adventure. He red-lettered the
24th of May, the first of July, Thanksgiving day, Hallowe'en. And the complete success of a picnic, the county
fair or a circus was assured if one could just keep a grip on father's hand
or trail along by his side.
He seemed to have the idea that Christmas stood up pretty well just be being
Christmas, without too many accessories, and any little gifts which he might
from time to time bestow upon us were reserved for dull off seasons when
nothing else was happening.
It
is true that the overwhelming urge to give did overtake him in stealthy ways,
but not as affecting his own family. Shortly
before the Big Day he would arrive home from the city, laden with sundry
packages which were immediately whisked out of sight.
But we soon lost all illusions that they might be for us. On Christmas Eve about 9 p.m. he would say to mother
ÒIf youÕll just get those things I think I'll take a little
walk.' Taking a little walk at nine oÕclock
in the evening in rural Ontario was something unheard of in those days. It wasnÕt till years that we learned that
father's walk was directed to some of the neighboring farms where the children
did not have much security of Santa Claus, and no swarm of 'giving' relatives
as we had.
The church Christmas tree was another outlet for father's enthusiasm. He really let himself go on that tree. As superintendent of the Sunday School he ranged
the country to lay claim to the tallest, most wide spreading tree that could
be encompassed within the limit of the vaulted church ceiling and the pulpit
square. He scoured the city for the gayest Christmas
candles, and for evenings before the concert he labored prodigiously and
wastefully with the rest of us, stringing festoons of popcorn and cutting
out fancy tissue paper. He painstakingly checked
the list of S.S. 'scholars' lest some child in the district be left lamenting
when it was all over. And it was through the church
tree that father almost lost standing. He decreed
with all his redheaded vigor that him that hath should not be given more. He put his foot down on calling one golden haired
darling to the platform to receive twelve gifts, while other children had
their names called only once. One gift for each
child was his ultimatum and a very radical stand that was for those days. But he won out and continued as superintendent until
he went forward to take charge of the children of Heaven.
Round home, mother declared that father was a complete nuisance with all
his swither about the coming of Christmas. He
hung round the house while she was making the puddings, the mincemeat and
the cakes, wanting to seed raisins and chop peel and clean out the mixing
bowls. He hovered anxiously over the geraniums
in the bay window of the dining room, demanding from mother that the plants
would all explode in red bloom by the 25th.
He culled out the turkey flock, selecting the finest for home use. At last, of course it was the hired man who had to
do the actual killing. Father would feed and pick
and clean, but he did hate to be in on any kill.
It was always a white Christmas in those days, and just before the great
day father would call all hands to man the shovels so that there would be
paths to all the different places where the city cousins would want to go. For good measure we made snowmen at intersections,
pointing the way to the orchard, the barn yard, the corn crib and to grandma's
kitchen door. But it was father who suggested
the rakish hat, the pipe, the little touches of caricature which made each
snow man distinctive. He even had fancy ideas
for the perennial fox-an-goose rings.
The
night before Christmas was rather a tense time for us children. Would the rich bachelor uncle from Michigan get home
in time? We learned rather heavily on our bachelor
uncle for largesse. It was he who contributed
the strange new delicacies, like grapefruit. Always
he kept us in suspense, and always he made it, usually in the dead of night
when all hope had fled, loaded to capacity with something for everyone. With all this outpouring he spent his holidays parrying
our exuberant joy with grunts and snorts.
Christmas
morning was very high powered, everything converging on the arrival of the
city cousins. Mother hustled like mad indoors,
while father shaped things up for the drive to the country station to meet
the visitors. The sleigh box was cleaned, lined
with straw, and ranged with seats to serve the adults.
Robes and blankets were piled in to keep everyone warm. Father always planned a little dramas for his arrival
at the church, perhaps a new resounding string of sleighbells; perhaps snappy
red plumes for the harness, or it might be a newly broke team of colts to
add uncertainty and thrill to the ride. And the
city cousins never failed to respond with 'Oh Uncle Johnny, you've got a
matched teamÓ, or 'Oh, Uncle Johnny, do you think we'll have a runaway?' Then father would Gee and Haw with great flourish,
and the sleighbells would leap forth with their gay welcome.
The
dinner, which was mother's anxious concern, always meant two tables, the
youngsters milling round hungrily, while the older folk said yes they'd have
another helping, loafing along with maddening deliberation. But eventually came the second table and to the glory
of our parents it must be said that we found the same bounty as prevailed
with the grownups. No wings, no necks, all drumsticks,
second joints, wishbones, breasts, and plenty.
In the afternoon, while the company relaxed in the lazy memory of a proper
feast, father carried the burden of keeping conversation on an even keel. Mother, busy tidying up in the kitchen, would whisper
to one of us children to slip into the parlor and listen if Aunt Bessie was
still doing all the talking. If we came back
with the news that father had lured Aunt Bessie into the corner to look at
new stereoptican views, and our silent Uncle David was now holding forth,
mother would smile and say 'That's fine. Your
father is doing very nicely.' Aunt Bessie was
a family problem, an irrelevant chatterer, driving her mate, Uncle David,
into awesome depths of silence. Uncle David was
also handicapped in that he was a violent Tory wedded into a nest of Grits. So for father to wheedle him into frank, calm discussion
on what was wrong with the country, was a real triumph.
Even our member of parliament uncle was so impressed with Uncle David's
courage that he unbent, and related some of Sir John A. MacDonald's choicest
quips, refraining almost entirely from reference to the incomparable Laurier. It was all very mellow because father had a light
touch on the conversational rein.
Just before dusk, father would round up all the city cousins to help feed
the stock, and there was no end of excitement in serving out Christmas rations
at the barn. Reckless forkfuls of hay were shot
down from the loft into the mangers, and little arms delved into the oatbin
as the horses whinnered for a second helping.
But the evening was the time of real comfort, all the farm chores done, all
the dishes cleared away. It was then that the
taciturn uncle from Michigan came to life, and began to take up where he
had left off the Christmas before. Father brought
up the brave old days of the sixties just to give the Michigan uncle a chance
to boast that he had been the best 'cradler' in the township, and could still
outchop any man in the room. Father also restored
Aunt Bessie's ruffled spirits by begging her to sing 'Oh, the Mistletoe Bough',
which she did with her usual eerie effect. Father
himself recited funny pieces he had been saving up all fall. They sang old duets and quartets, and over the heads
of us children swept wave upon wave of laughter and argument.
Then came the scurry to get the city cousins off in time for the late night
train. Much too late for children to be gallivanting
the roads, but father insisted that we all pile in.
The trip to the station was usually hurried, but coming home we took
our time. We drove by the old witch's place though
father protested mildly that it did not make her a witch just because she
lived alone and walked with a crooked stick. We
crept by the creaking, deserted old mill, and wound round the swamp where
the fireflies glowed in the summer time. Father
told us of the wolves that used to hunt the swamps when he was a boy. He kept us awake with stories woven round the woods
and the homes that we passed. That ride home,
under the silent, star-studded sky, was the grand climax, easing us down
gently from the tension of the day, and sending up sleepily and happily to
bed.
It was a very fine Christmas, yet father had not given one of us a single
present. Or had he?
Side
note - father is John
Elliott and mother is Kate McColl
Member of Parliament is James Armstrong married to Anne McColl
Uncle from Michigan is Hugh McColl (doctor)
Aunt Mary Cousins Elliott
I believe Aunt Bessie and Uncle
David may have come from Jenny Dickson side which I know nothing about.
I