As a boy, I began looking forward to Christmas vacation in early September, about the time Mr. Kowalski started handing out those math assignments. By the time December arrived, my parents were whispering more than usual and I was wondering what magical things they had in store. There was little in the way of extra money, so one of those magical traditions was the making of colourful candles we would sell door to door, hoping to earn enough to buy gifts. Not all of the traditions were welcome. Sometimes my parents enjoyed travelling to visit relatives and friends. They had a highly sophisticated method of choosing whom we would visit, which involved the laying of a map of Canada on the floor and the tossing of relatives' pictures in the air. Whoever had their picture land closest to their hometown would receive a complementary weekend visit from the Callaways. Sometimes we'd end up in Carstairs, Alberta, and sometimes in Loon Lake, Saskatchewan. As I recall, my father never used a map, he went on faith. I always felt like the Wise Men must have felt, heading off on those trips.
Dad's personal goal was to drive at least 500 miles without stopping at any restrooms. Every few hours, we'd tell him that we had “to go,” but he would respond, “Eh? You say something? I can't hear you past these earmuffs.” Every once in a while Mom would offer to drive on the slippery roads, knowing that Dad would not let her unless he went blind in both eyes or suffered a level three heart attack. On these trips, my sister and I sat in the back seat pinching and poking each other, and to this day, when I think of Christmas miracles, I think of the fact that my parents did not lock us both in the trunk and abandon the car.
Apart from these short forays, I loved Christmas vacation. Though my parents had no manuals on creating great vacations, they seemed intuitively to know how. For one thing, they invested in others. Our turkey was surrounded not only by ravenous relatives, but by famished friends. Mom and Dad were always on the prowl for lonely looks in the church foyer, or neighbours who had no family within driving distance. To my parents, relationships were more important than a perfect meal or a tidy house. From the time our children were small, we have done simple things to teach them to help others. This has included buying small bags of groceries for needy families. In fact, it has turned into a family adventure. We leave the groceries on someone's doorstep, bang on the door and run. In 18 years, we have never been caught. Unless our neighbours are reading this.
My parents also unplugged the TV. Oh sure, we had some great times together watching classic movies, but as much as possible we were encouraged to be outside in that pre-Nintendo era. Mom and Dad were often there with us, throwing snowballs or building forts. With no television, we learned to ice skate and carol sing and come up with our own entertainment. Perhaps that's why my brother offered me a shiny nickel one icy Christmas Eve. All I had to do was lick a metal doorknob (yes, I obliged).
Perhaps, best of all, we were taught to remember that it is not our birthday we celebrate at Christmas. Once, while I was drooling my way through the toy section of the Sears catalogue, my mother put her arm about my shoulder and kindly reminded me that the gifts would be a little meagre this year. Sensing my disappointment, she asked if I thought Jesus got much for his birthday. I had to think about it, but I said he got gold, frankincense and myrrh, which I thought might have been a plastic toy of some sort or maybe a casserole. “I think we can afford that much,” she laughed. I've forgotten most of the presents she bought me, but I remember the gift of her laughter.
