Christina Ostenstad

Christmas as a kid was precisely what I imagine every child’s Christmas should be: an embarrassment of riches beneath a towering tree, which itself was a glittering monument of sparkly tinsel, mismatched homemade ornaments, and perhaps a festive, edible string of popcorn or a chain of vibrant red and green construction paper.

The anticipation leading up to Christmas was a delightful, drawn-out affair. There was the annual school christmas concert, the one night where we shed our everyday clothes for stiff, fancy ones. Whether we were a star in a play or a simple chorus member, the dress code was a solemn decree: just red, or black and white. Whatever the combination, we were to look neat, tidy, and presented with an air of theatrical decorum.

I can’t quite summon many memories of Christmas crafts from those elementary school days, though I’m certain some glitter-dusted projects must have transpired. As I sit here writing, I realize one memory is stubbornly refusing to materialize, but that’s the fickle nature of the memory-keeper’s heart, I suppose!

On the night of the concert, we’d wait in our classroom, a collection of vibrating nerves and polished shoes, before marching out single file and onto the stage to perform our greatest event of a lifetime. I remember craning my neck, scanning the sea of faces, searching for my Mum and Dad. Sometimes a joyous wave of recognition would hit; sometimes they were hiding in a shadow. But regardless, as soon as the last note faded, my Mum would magically appear in my classroom doorway to scoop me up.

Another memory I cling to is the glorious afternoon movie. All the classes would line up, a long, shuffling caterpillar of children, to watch classics like Charlie Brown’s Christmas and The Sound of Music. And, of course, one of those slightly frightening animated specials that seemed to haunt the TV screens the week before Christmas. I never cared for those—they felt a bit too spooky. I’m sure my friends adored them, though, because, hey, it was Christmas!

Once school dissolved into Christmas break, there was the blessed first day we got to sleep in. I don’t think I was ever a great sleeper-inner, but I distinctly recall waking to my Mum’s hand flinging the blind up, a cheerful, sudden signal that the day had officially begun!

I’d take my perch at the 100-year-old grandfather’s kitchen table, eating cereal and letting my legs dangle in front of the furnace vent. That was a ritualistic memory: a blast of cocoa-butter warmth pumping out, enrobing my legs in heat.

Often, I would sit, eat, and pore over the legendary Christmas Wish Book—the colossal Sears Catalogue that arrived early, heavy with promise. I could flip through the pages, one after the other, choosing, re-choosing, and changing my mind a hundred times over which fantastical toys I would dream to have. Barbie was my reigning favorite, and anything miniature: dollhouses, tiny dolls, all that magical stuff. To this day, I still hold a peculiar fascination for all things pint-sized.

If it happened to be a Saturday a week or two before Christmas, it was time for the pilgrimage to Auntie Marguerite’s. This was a grand tradition, its origins likely lost in the mists of time, started by Little Gramma and Grandad’s burgeoning brood of grandchildren. However it began, I hold many fond, shimmering memories of this yearly event.

My Mum and Dad would drive us out to Delta, where a chaotic gathering of my cousins would await. There was Ev (though he soon outgrew the dominion of the little kids), Nadine, Melanie, Kelly, and later came Devin and perhaps Shawn—the complete roster is now a little blurry.

The tradition began the moment we stepped into the living room. I recall a large, live tree standing sentinel in front of the big window, yet it was utterly sparse, naked, and waiting. This was the children’s sacred duty: to deck the halls… and the branches!

There were many ancient ornaments, likely Auntie Marguerite’s favorites, lovingly hoarded for years. We kids would get busy, meticulously (or perhaps not) pulling out the treasures one by one, and hanging them upon the waiting boughs. We’d drape some garland here and there, and truly, once the lights were twinkling, who could tell what the tree looked like? Likely a charming, festive mess with no organization whatsoever. But it didn’t matter; we, the small workers, had a vital job to do, and we worked together to do it.

After the decorative chaos subsided, we’d retreat to the dining room table for lunch, which sometimes felt grand enough to be dinner. It was generally hotdogs, perhaps chips, and pop for sure! We would all crowd around the table, chattering about whatever topic seized our imaginations—usually the latest, greatest toy we possessed, or what Christmas bounty we were expecting. I always tried to seamlessly blend in with the older girls. Nadine and Melanie would chat, seemingly with natural, grown-up ease. Being younger, I mostly trailed along in their glittering wake, following their lead.

Later on, my Mum and Dad would return to collect me, and we would head back home. I knew I would see the Christmas gang again soon, because Christmas Eve was already breathing down our necks. This was, quite simply, my favorite time of the year. I always felt a flicker of nervousness being left there alone, but the moment I saw my Auntie and Uncle, all was right with my small world.

The days leading up to Christmas, now that school was blessedly out, were reserved for finishing up the shopping. There was always the annual, magical trip to Gastown in Vancouver. Mum and I would take the bus down, following the same treasured script year after year.

First stop would be the magnificent Woodward’s Christmas display. The massive department store windows were transformed into dazzling Christmas dioramas—some moving, some still—but the entire Christmas “vibe” was there: the frosty spray-snow on the windows, the carollers frozen in song, and woodland creatures nestled in and around the scenes. It was quite the spectacle to look forward to!

After soaking up the visual splendor, we would go for lunch at the Woodward’s cafeteria. And once that was finished, the serious shopping would commence. There were always last-minute necessities to pick up—mainly clothes, and something special for Dad.

The last stop on the Vancouver trip was always the Scottish store in Gastown. This is where we’d head for either a new tartan skirt, a plush cashmere sweater, or a jaunty Tam. Generally, it was a skirt that would be worn for the next couple of Christmases. Why Scottish? I had no idea, because as far as I knew then, I was decidedly NOT Scottish; I was English. But I’m sure Mum was, in her own quiet way, reliving one of her own ideal Christmases. One will never truly know.

Christmas Eve, ah, this was truly the peak, the bright star of my Christmas. We would all head back to Auntie Marguerite’s. The tree we had decorated a few weeks prior would be ablaze with lights, the ornaments still clinging to the same spots we’d placed them, and its base would be swallowed by heaps of wrapped Christmas gifts. I adored that sight. There was a palpable sense of anticipation radiating from that lovely pile just for me.

The adults would settle in with their glasses of wine, chatting warmly, while we kids played—sometimes downstairs, sometimes right in the living room. Being a bit on the shy side, I would usually stay close to Mum and Dad in the beginning.

Then, dinner would be served. We would all gather around a large table, though when the kids got a little older, we were often relegated to our own kitchen table. Dinner was a huge turkey with all the traditional Christmas trimmings. I remember my older cousins, Linda and Kyle, whirling around the kitchen, playing the roles of helpful elves.

Once we moved on to dessert, The Magic Show began! It was Uncle Alan, and his legendary act of “drinking fire!” Could a person truly swallow a flame and have it magically extinguish itself? Or was it still burning on the journey down? I was utterly fascinated! It felt like having our own private, breathtaking circus as we watched the Fire-Eating Man.

After the grand finale of dinner and dessert, everyone would retreat back to the living room. Sometimes, if we begged Auntie Marguerite with enough passion, she would sit down and play the organ, or, if things got truly spirited, she would bring out the accordion. Yes, that accordion, which now sits in my old cabinet, a quiet heirloom from my grandparents. I occasionally thought of learning to play it, but my dearest cousin has wisely advised against it.

We would listen, and sometimes we’d all sing a Christmas carol or two. It was always a warm, noisy, fun time. By that point, I would be sufficiently warmed up to my relatives. I would usually find someone special to sit with. My absolute favorite was my Uncle Alan, a gentle soul who, I believe, didn’t truly mind us kids. Each year, I would clamber onto his lap, and we would exchange an “Eskimo kiss,” where we would rub our noses together. This simple act was something I found truly heartwarming and will always remember. That Eskimo kiss came to mean even more later in my life, as I spent time learning about Uncle Alan’s history and past.

When it was finally time to depart, one of my cousins would begin handing out the gifts before we left. I was always so excited to count how many of those cheerful packages were addressed to me. There was a guaranteed minimum of three: one from Linda’s family, one from Lloyd’s family, and one from Auntie. We would then pack up and start the drive back home. The sheer anticipation of knowing those wrapped treasures were sitting in the car nearly killed me. I would wonder and wonder what was inside. That would immediately transport me back to the Sears catalogue. Perhaps, just perhaps, something from its glossy pages had made the leap to reality.

Once we arrived home, there was no fooling around; it was straight to bed. I used to lie there for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of my Mum bustling around the living room. Sometimes, if I put up a big enough fuss, I would crack my door open, and I could sneak a peak from my bed, watching the reflection in the hall mirror. Ha ha… I was either trying to discover the true identity of Santa or get a precious sneak peek of the morning’s bounty!

Somehow, I would finally fall asleep, and then, morning would come. I was always the first one up! The waiting to open presents felt like an absolute eternity.

We would all gather in the living room. I could open my stocking first, which was always filled with many little and neat trinkets. The most memorable, which I still cherish, was a shiny letter opener. Then came the main event! It was rare for any of the exact gifts I’d circled in the Sears Wish Book to appear, but there was always something even better: often miniature doll furniture, a perfect dollhouse, the Peanuts piano, or a Light Bright. Which years I got a watch, I have no idea. But Christmas was huge in our house; we were like those neighbors whose tree was always surrounded by a spectacular mountain of gifts. I would receive a couple of big items and many little things—they always felt so special. Sometimes my Dad would be in a rare gifting mood, and a newly wrapped carving would arrive in a plain brown paper bag.

In the morning, Gramma Frost would make her appearance. She lived only a block away. There was always something from her, which Mum had usually gone shopping for, so often I don’t think Gramma quite knew what she had “bought” us. It didn’t matter. The very best part was showing her all my new treasures, and she would gaze at them and tell stories about what she would have received when she was a girl.

Gramma would entertain me for a while. Sometimes my brother came home, and usually my sister was there. I would just play contentedly with my new things while we waited for the Christmas dinner. In the early years, dinner was at home, prepared by Mum, but later we would go to my sister’s house, once she had a family of her own.

Round 2 of turkey, and perhaps ham, because my dad would never touch the turkey, declaring, “Birds are for watching, not for eating.”

After the savory delights, it was time for dessert. Mum would make delicate lemon tarts, sometimes cherry tarts. Oh, and then there was either lurid green or red Jell-O. This was all served alongside tea. Sometimes a mysterious box of chocolates would be produced from the china cabinet in the kitchen—there was always a secret stash of chocolate or peanut brittle lurking in there. In later years, the hiding spot became too well-known, and the stash was likely consumed at a quicker rate!

For days after Christmas, my time was happily spent playing with my new toys, often followed by a trip across the street to see what my neighbors had received. I remember always feeling like they got the biggest, bestest, and flashiest gifts ever. There were four kids over there, so their tree was probably overflowing! The children were generous, and we would play for hours with all the newest toys they had.

If we were lucky at Christmas, we would be graced with snow. But it didn’t truly matter; Christmas was a magical event, with or without a traditional blanket of white.