Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
by Louise Dubrule

Unlike Jacob Marley, my ghosts of Christmas past are not at all frightening. The older I get, the dearer the memories become.

When I was very young, the holiday was not just about gifts. To begin with, we never had much money and the gifts were often handmade: socks, hats, mittens, scarves, sweaters, and once a crazyquilt patchwork bathrobe lovingly embroidered with a variety of stitches. One year I received a storebought brown corduroy skirt and the concept was startling. When I was eleven, my brother and his new wife gave me a polished wooden box with a layer of chocolates inside. The candy quickly disappeared, but these many years (all right: many, many years) later, I still have the box as a cherished keepsake.

Christmas centered around the Church, and we spent Advent preparing for the great celebration. For us, Midnight Mass was a family tradition. The church must not have been fully heated because we were comfortable with our coats on. This was winter in northern Vermont, after all. The evening started with a sacred concert nearly an hour before, and the choir pulled out all the stops with beautiful songs, alternating French and English while the people straggled in by twos and threes until every pew was full.

Just before midnight, a great hush fell and suddenly the celebrant appeared at the side entrance. That was the signal for the organist to begin “Oh Holy Night” that was always sung by Mr. Brouillette. He was a venerable old man in his seventies but his sweet tenor gave me goosebumps when he began “Minuit chretien, c’est l’heur solennelle.” By the time he reached the line “Peuple, agenou!” I had a huge lump in my throat. Nothing else has ever come close.

Now the procession started. It was hard to recognize our scruffy friends who were the altar servers for now they were clad in crisp white albs with red capes and sashes, their faces shining and hair neatly combed. Then came the three priests in their finest vestments, and at last a little child carrying a pillow upon which rested the plaster Christ child that would be placed in the crèche at the left side altar. The Redeemer had arrived.

This was a solemn High Mass in Latin with three priests, lots of candles, and the air redolent with heady incense mixing with the spicy balsam scent of the wreaths that adorned the big columns that held up the vaulted ceiling. All readings and responses of the Mass were chanted in Latin, and to my child’s ear the priests sounded as good as the voices we heard on the radio. This was especially true of the little priest who came from Sutton, Quebec for all such occasions. It was the wee hours of the morning before the ceremonies and rites ended and the great doors at the back opened to let out the people. The magic continued, for I’ll swear it was always snowing as we filed out to the cars, even if it had been a dry year with no earlier snow.

Now the festivities began for everyone gathered at our house for reveillon. Aunt Estelle and Uncle Emile hosted Thanksgiving, Aunt Cecile and Uncle Frank claimed New Years as theirs, and my family received everyone for Christmas. My sister tells me that reveillon was originally held by Aunt Lydia and Uncle Maurice, but they had moved to New Hampshire by the time I came along. Before I was old enough to go to Midnight Mass, Mama stayed home with me. In thinking about it now, after I started to attend, I wonder how Mama arranged for all the food to be ready at that hour when she had been at Midnight Mass too. But there appeared the turkey, the ham, the mashed potatoes, the winter squash and other vegetables, the homemade rolls, the traditional tourtieres, the cranberry sauce and at least two kinds of pie and her famous fruit cake that had been soaking in liquor since Thanksgiving. Papa had a bottle so the men could toast, the women were happy with a little glass of wine, and the talk and laughter flowed around the table. Then Mama passed around dishes of candy as the final touch. There were hard red candies that were filled with smooth raspberry jam, little yellow baguettes that held peanut butter, fancy little mints with patterns in the middle, and ribbon candy so thin that shards threatened to slice your tongue or the inside of your cheek. Of such are memories made.

Change is inevitable, for time doesn’t stand still. My husband’s tours in the military prevented us from being near other family members during the holidays. Over the years we’ve attended many Midnight Masses, and all were different. One chaplain decreed that Midnight Mass would end at midnight. One year there was a living Nativity in the sanctuary, complete with a burro and a couple of sheep and a real sleeping baby in “Mary’s” arms…and the baby was a girl. I remember many years when there was standing room only for Midnight Mass and we made sure to arrive early for a good seat. Last year the church was barely half full. Has it fallen out of style?

As for us, we’ve developed our own traditions. When our children and grandchildren come back for Christmas, they expect spritz and gingerbread cookies. Christmas morning calls for English tea ring to nibble on while gifts are opened, and they must find marzipan in their stockings. Of course our French Canadian tourtieres are part of the celebration, often for breakfast. The tree can be trimmed with old or new decorations, but you will always find one pink ball from our first tree forty-nine years ago. The true meaning of Christmas is not lost in the gifts and wrappings, for the crèche takes center stage and the infant Jesus doesn’t go in until late Christmas Eve.

My mother used to say that distance and time lends enchantment, but in remembering the past, I truly believe there was magic. I fervently hope that someday our children will feel the same way when they talk about their memories.

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