Christmas in Cramahe Story 1

Through the generosity of several of our local authors, we are able to bring some Christmas stories to you. The first is by Pat Calder.
All stories remain in the copyright of the authors and re-printing is not permitted without their written permission.

Christmases

by Patricia Calder



I was six. In Toronto back in the fifties the lights flickered the whole time; it was very Christmassy. We were driving through a snow storm to visit my aunt’s family. The cloverleaf over the new four lane highway was mid-construction, the signs not in place, so we drove around and around, lost.

I can still hear my father, especially when we had the flat tire. The car was an antique, black, square topped ’29 Oakland, with turquoise velvet seats and curtains, my father’s pride and joy. Except for this Christmas Eve when it simply would not take us where we needed to go, like a stubborn old horse. Then we had another flat tire. Unbelievable. The air was blue, never mind that it was snowing to beat the band. Anyhow, I don’t remember how we got to Aunt Marjorie and Uncle Jack’s, but we did.

Uncle Jack by this time was writing children’s books. I never saw any (did I mention I was six?) but that’s what he was doing now. He used to be a salesman. Before that he was in insurance. Before that he must have been in the army because the wedding picture shows him in a uniform. He was a giant of a man, six foot four and stone bald. He had a peculiar twitch in his face that made him squint involuntarily off and on, like the lights. He liked to drink, smoke cigars, and eat.

The trouble with Christmas was that he served rounds and rounds of booze very enthusiastically until my father fell asleep in a chair. “You deliberately get him drunk,” my mother scolded, because the same scene had unfolded the year before. My brother remembers couches full of large uncles, all drinking.

For the rest of the story go to Christmases.