A Tale of Christmas . . .

Normally I would do a how to spend a week post today, but you really don't want to read about how much pain I have been in do you, so I am going to do something a tiny bit different this morning, and see if we can't all get in a Christmassy mood . . .  so curl up in that big chair next to the fire, gather a blanket over your lap and settle in . . .

"As we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring,expands!  Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth."
~Charles Dickens 



Victoria Christmas weather was always nippy ... generally there was snow.  We sewed presents for weeks before Christmas came ... kettle holders, needle books, penwipers and cross-stitch bookmarkers.  Just before Christmas we went out into the woods, cut down a fir tree and brought it home so alive that the warm house fooled it into thinking spring had come, and it breathed delicious live pine smell all over the house.   We put fir and holly behind all the pictures and on the mantelpiece and everywhere.

Plum puddings were dangling from under the pantry shelf by the tails of their boiling cloths.   A month ago we had all sat round the breakfast room table, stoning raisins while someone read a story aloud.   Everyone had given the pudding a good luck stir before it went into the bowls and was tied down and boiled for hours in the copper wash boiler while spicy smells ran all over the house.  On Christmas Day the biggest pudding came out for a final boil before being brought to the table with brandy fire leaping up its sides from the dish, and with a sprig of holly scorching and crackling on top.



Christmas Eve Father took us into town to see the shops lit up.  Every lamp post had a fir tree tid to it ... not corpsy old trees but fresh cut firs.  Victoria streets were dark; this made the shops look all the brighter.  Windows were decorated with mock snow made of cotton wool and diamond dust.  Drygoods shops did not have much that was Christmassy to display except red flannel and rabbit fur baby coats and muffs and tippets.  Chemists had immense globes of red, green and blue medicine hanging from brass charms in their shop windows.  I wished some of us could be sick enough for Mr. Helmeken to prescribe one of the splendid globes for us.   The chemists also showed coloured soap and fancy perfume in bottles.  Castor oil in hideous blue bottles peered from behind nice Christmas things and thew out hints about overeating and stomach ache.   A horrid woman once told my mother tht she let her children eat everything they wanted on Christmas Day and finished them up with a big dose of castor oil.  Mr. Hibben, the stationer, was nicer than that woman and the chemist.  He had all the school books behind story books left open at the best pictures.  He had "Merry Christmas" in cotton wool on red cardboard in his window.



It was the food shops that Merry Christmassed the hardest.  In Mr Saunder's, the grocer's, window was a real Santa Claus grinding coffee.  The wheel was bigger than he was.  He had a long beard and moved his hands and his head.   As the wheel went round the coffee beans went in, got ground and came out, smell and all.  In the window all round Santa were bonbons, cluster raisins, nuts and candied fruit, besides long walking sticks made of peppermint candy.  Next to this splendid window came Goodacre's horrible butcher shop ... everything in it dead and naked.  Dead geese and turkeys waggled, head down; dead beeves, calves and pigs straddled between immense meat hooks on the walls; naked sheep had bunches of coloured paper where their heads ought to have been and flowers and squiggles carved in the fat of their backs.  Creamers that still had their heads on stared out of eyes like poached eggs when the white has run over the yolk.  Baby pigs looked worst of all ... pink and naked as bathing babies, their cheeks drawn back to make them smile at the red apples which had been forced into their toothless, sucking mouths.The shop floor was strewn deep in sawdust to catch blood drips.  You heard no footsteps in the shop, only the sharpening of knives, sawing of bones, and bump, bump of the scale.   Everybody was examining meat and saying, "Compliments of the Season" to everyone else,   Father saying, "Fine display Goodacre, very fine indeed!"  We children rushed out and went back to Santa while Father chose his meat.




The shop of old George, the poulterer, was nearly as bad as Goodacre's, only the dead things did not look so dead, nor stare so hard having shut the grey lids over their eyes to die.   They were limp in necks and stiff in legs.  As most of them had feathers on they looked like birds still, whereas the butcher's creatures had been rushed at once from life to meat.

The food shops ended the town and after that came Johnson Street and Chinatown, which was full of black night.  Here we turned back towards James' Bay, ready for bed.

There was a high mantlepiece in the breakfast room.  And while we were hanging our stockings from it my sister read:

"Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse."



On the way to bed we could smell our Christmas tree waiting in the dining room.  The room was all dark but we knew that it stood on the floor and touched the ceiling and that it hung heavy with presents; ready for tomorrow.  When the lights were lit there would be more of them than any of us children could count.   We would all take hands and sing carols round the tree.  Bong would come in and look with his mouth open.   There was always things on it for him but he would not wait to get his presents.  He would run back to his kitchen and we would take them to him there.  It seemed as if Bong felt too Chinese to Christmas with us in our Canadian way.

Present giving was only done to members in one's immediate family.  Other's you gave love and a card to, and kissed the people you did not usually kiss.

~Emily Carr, A Little Town and a Little Girl
(Emily Carr's childhood memories bring vividly to life the shops and streets of the then little town of Victoria at Christmastime, before the town became a city.) 

  A little taste of Christmas past for you this Saturday morning, the last before Christmas 2015.



Christmas

Wind blow;
sing low
for our darling
born this morning.

Life's new Spring,
peace will bring
and joy to move
men's hearts to love.
~Gillian Ferns  

 

Baking in The English Kitchen today  . . .  Cranberry and Pinenut Biscotti.


Have a great Saturday.  Hope you are able to get all the things done that you need to get done and that you have a lovely day.  We have our Ward Christmas Party tonight.  Not sure if I am up to going or not.  We will see.   In the meantime, don't forget!


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And I do too!