It didn’t matter how much money my parents had when I was growing up, somehow they managed to pull off Christmas after Christmas. With all due respect to my father, it was my mother who did all the grunt work. She was probably overwhelmed by the sheer number of children requiring her attention. I cannot imagine just how she grappled with five ingrates, all pining for a special Christmas morn. As if out of thin air, no one was disappointed, including the old man. There was something quite magical about jumping downstairs and seeing the glory of our Christmas tree. It was literally surrounded by gift after gift, carefully placed in military order. I cannot recall a holiday that didn’t hold such splendour, even if the splendour was occasionally downsized. Christmas morning was its own reward. I do not recollect even one that didn’t hold the same wonder as the season before. I understand now that there was never a lot of money, so how she did it each and every year is beyond me. All I know is what I remember and I remember much love. Nothing could stand in the way, nothing. With all the presents unwrapped and coveted, my mother set out to conquer the feast. With six other souls to gratify, she was always up to the challenge. The dinner was a masterpiece, just like every other time. Perhaps I am biased in my recall but I really cannot find a childhood yuletide memory that holds anything but wonder, and glee, and a sense of something holy underneath it all. Christmas sure is different with my mother gone. Yes, it holds certain moments but things just aren’t the same. Our tree holds many presents. The table holds the feast. The sense of belonging and family, so prevalent as I grew up, is met with loved ones near and far. There is still an emptiness, a hallow space that can never be filled. I long to unwrap presents with her. I long for the taste of her stuffing but not her devilled eggs. I guess I miss my mom and nothing will ever return to how it was. This will be my eighth Christmas without her, the eighth year of my sorrow. I long for the days of old. Just for a second, I would love to experience her Christmas Spirit.

            My first partner and I had a lovely tree each Christmas. Glass bulbs, a Victorian style angel and coloured lights came together in a manner reminiscent of my experience as a child at Christmastime. It was a pretty thing, always fresh cut at a tree farm. I can still smell the needles, I pine for it. One of my biggest Christmas regrets is giving away all our Christmas decorations after he died. Even that blue velour angel was given up to grief, and abandon, and hopelessness. I wouldn’t need them where I was going so I handed them out like presents on Christmas morn. I would do anything to retrieve them from the anguish of my past. That first year I thought, as the season approached, that those whom I bestowed such heirlooms upon would cherish them like I did. I was wrong. Not one person that I know of knows where they are or what happened to them. The angel left me over a decade ago when its bearer disappeared like January snow. I will never see it again. The rest must be lost to time. As a matter of fact, I have very little decorations from that time. A few here and there will have to be reminder enough. Over three times as many Christmases have gone by than the time we were together. I have known more Christmas Days without him then I ever had with him. Doug was a quiet man, gentle and somewhat timid. He stood 6’2” and was built like a brick shithouse. I can still see him so clearly in my mind. I can hear him and even smell him. Time has guaranteed that I miss him in an unfamiliar way. There is little left for me to cling to. We never spent Christmas morning together, not once. On the night before, we both headed home to celebrate with our families. Our yuletide exchange was on Christmas Eve morning, long before it was time for the both of us to head home. I still have every gift he ever gave me. I also have his wallet, his workout clothes and I even have a large clip of his hair. I would trade them all just to know he was okay. As Christmas approaches, I journey to his resting place and leave my standard seasonal fare. Standing around a headstone is never quite as rewarding as sitting around a tree opening up presents. It is so hard, in light of this reality, to ascertain any form of Christmas Spirit but I try to find it anyway.

“Christmas is the time of year

For being with the ones we love

Sharing so much joy and cheer

What a wonderful feelin’

Watching the ones we love

Having so much fun

I was sittin’ by the fire side

Taking a walk through the snow

Listening to a children’s choir

Singing songs about Jesus and

The blessed way that He came to us

Why can’t it remain

All through the year

Each day the same

It’s truly amazin’

That spirit of Christmas”

            My Christmas history is not just made up of the melancholy. There is great joy that I continue to find as Christmas approaches. The anticipation comes just as it did when I was a kid. Despite the conflict I now have with the religious side of the season, the tactile experience is one I still love to have. Unlike most men, I love Christmas shopping. I usually begin on Christmas in July, the 25^th day of that month. I start my lists. I start my looking. I even buy a gift here and there. Slowly but surely, as the months go on, that Spirit of Christmas always finds me. No matter my misery, no matter my state, Christmas comes alive in me exactly as it did when I was a boy. I just can’t help it. I am like Scrooge come Christmas morn. It may even be a possession, a spirit taking control. It’s a wonderful feeling. Christmas is also aesthetically pleasing. The window scenes, all the Christmas trees and so many pretty lights always take me back to my first memories of my Christmas past. I remember it in bits and pieces but it is strong in my mind and strong in my soul. I can only see the tree before me. I don’t remember the presents. I don’t remember the people. All I remember is that sense of awe inside me as I sat there staring at my first Christmas tree. I was overjoyed, but that’s about as much as I am able to recall. It is enough for me. I have so much else to remember. Every year, without fail, I am haunted once again. There stands my mother making lemon cupcakes with icing sugar sprinkles. She is young, she is happy. There goes my father, thinking he was too tall to need a chair to reach the star. All my brothers and my sister are young again, legs crossed and waiting for their turn at opening a present. It is warm and it is heartening. These memories comfort me in a world full of pain. As the season comes round again, I am enchanted in a way. I have much to be thankful for and much in my life to treasure. I still hold dear to my thoughts, of celebrating with my family and the Spirit of Christmas that has always remained.

“All the kin folk gather round

The lovely Christmas tree

Hearts are glowing full of joy

Sense the gifts that we’re giving

And the love that we’re living

Why can’t it remain

All through the year

Each day the same

That’s what I wanna hear

I’ll tell you

It’s truly amazin

That Spirit of Christmas”

(That Spirit Of Christmas, Ray Charles 1985)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLmpKTqugM

            For the six year period that we lived in KitchenerOntario, we were not allowed to have real Christmas trees. Granted, a drying out trunk may have been a fire hazard, especially on the sixteenth floor, but that’s neither here nor there. Ben and I had always gone out at the beginning of December and secured a fresh cut tree. It was a tradition we had to put on hold until our living arrangements changed. Once they did, we returned to our regular routine. Lynden, Ontario is approximately 21 kilometres from where we reside in Paris, Ontario. Merry Farms Christmas Tree Farm was our most favoured spot to cut down a big one. Before our unfortunate incarceration in Kitchener, we had visited the place many times and had grown accustomed to it. Our return saw little that had changed. The location is quaint and cheery, with a Rockwell look and a countryside feel. We discovered the place back in 2006, when we started hunting for an alternative spot. We had grown dissatisfied with the local venues. For the price of the trees, they were just not good enough. My partner had Googled a random search, and we headed out to our breakthrough. On December 2^nd, 2006, we dressed for the weather and went out into the sun. It was a cold but not so frigid day. I was glad I decided to bring along some gloves. We spent over an hour walking up and down the rows of trees, stopping to examine any one that stood out in either of our minds. The farm itself is expansive. The 176 acre lot is almost completely covered by Christmas trees. Spruce, Blue Spruce, Pine and Douglas Fir all mingle in row after row after row. In the summer, and at Halloween, we partake with others and we play nicely. We engage with family and friends. When it comes to cutting down a tree, we play alone. Ben holds the trunk while I crawl under the thing and saw it down. We drag it back to the truck that we borrow from Ben’s father. It sits outside for a day, dripping what is left of its life onto the wooden deck out back of our home. Come the morrow, we will decorate and celebrate and make merry. A real tree always brings out one’s Christmas Spirit.

            After nineteen years together, we have an awful lot of Christmas stuff. Over 20 large boxes of yuletide rest in the basement, stacked upon each other like dominos. Come November and unpacking them is a chore. It takes weeks to set it all up. We start with the tree then we move on to decorating around it. It looks like Santa puked once all the details find their place. There are so many boxes and so much stuff that it can be overwhelming trying to sort it all out. I am good for that. I try to imagine all those boxed up decorations are more like baggage than for beautification. Like life, each one needs attention or you’ll never know what is inside. Ever year, I discover a different message buried in all that stuffing and cardboard. You have to try to make some sense of it all.  The metaphor holds great meaning for me. Every year, we add new content while sorting through anything broken that needs to be removed. The seasons change and people change and so too does Christmas. Traditions aside, there is always something new to discover, something new to create. Given half the chance, you can feel it, you can actually feel it. There is Christmas in the air. The magic of a Christmas tree, or a get together, or a walk on a snowy evening, all manage to inspire the hungry soul who is seeking that Spirit of Christmas.

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