By consensus, our family has largely opted out of Christmas gift giving this year. At the suggestion of our sons and their wives, we will instead get together at a favourite Calgary restaurant and enjoy a special meal — after the youngest son and his family move into their newly purchased Calgary home at the end of January.
While we have cut our gift shopping to other family members in recent years, choosing to make charitable donations instead, I’ll admit that I miss the chance to shop for those closest to us. But I’ll also admit that items hold less and less appeal, no doubt a backlash against the endless consumerism that we are faced with on a daily basis.
Angela and I have always Christmas shopped year-round, picking up smaller items that we come across, ones we think are especially suitable for a particular family member. So it’s not like we get caught up in the last-minute rush of shopping, madly dashing through store aisles to find something, anything, for a hard-to-buy-for person.
Because we have a granddaughter, we aren’t left completely out of the shopping loop. For her, too, we have picked up small gifts throughout the year. She will have to wait until she’s older for some, though, because at age two-and-a-half, she’s a little young for the collection of pop-up books, both new and used I’ve been amassing. She got a glimpse when she visited this summer and it put a smile on everyone’s face. As she sat on Angela’s lap, she would turn a page to see the next pop-up, then put her hand to her mouth and cry out, “Oh, my goodness!”
It is those “Oh, my goodness!” moments that create our Christmas morning memories. I suppose I was seven or eight when I got my first radio. We had made a rare winter trip to Fernie from Calgary and under the tree on Christmas morning was a little two-transistor radio, operated by a nine-volt battery. My dad explained that he had a co-worker whose hobby was leatherwork make a custom cover for it, but that it had been stolen from Frenchy’s car during a break-in.
I didn’t care much about the cover. All I knew was that I now had my very own radio. For months afterward, my parents would come into my bedroom as they headed for bed. As often as not, they would have to turn off the radio, which was playing quietly next to my ear on the pillow, with me fast asleep. Particularly if the Calgary Stampeders senior hockey team game was being broadcast that night.
Years later, when I was 12 or 13, another radio provided a special moment. It was an elegant portable with a wood case that gave it excellent sound. What made it special was that it let me listen to shortwave channels, and also brought in signals from American superstations, my favourite of which was from San Francisco. I loved listening to basketball games because, in those pre-cable television days, we didn’t see games on TV. On Sunday evenings I would head down into my basement room to listen to CBC’s weekly NHL radio broadcast, with the immortal Foster Hewitt calling the action.
My sisters, both younger than me, weren’t left out of the “Oh, my goodness!” moments. One year in the 1960s my dad mysteriously disappeared into our basement workshop each night for an hour or two. Even I, who rarely missed an opportunity to watch him working on a project, wasn’t allowed in. On Christmas morning the girls shouted with glee when they spotted a beautiful set of miniature bunk beds and a chest of drawers, all made to match the size of the large dolls each girl also received.
Our sons recall a Christmas that we spent at the home of one of Angela’s sisters in Calgary. The boys, pre-schoolers then, woke us up early. The adults drank morning coffees as the boys excitedly opened their gifts. Eventually, it occurred to us that it was still very dark outside and there were few lights on in neighbouring apartments. Strangely, none of us had a watch and the only clock indicated it should be light outside. We dialed the time service on the telephone and learned that it was only 1 a.m. The boys, probably attempting to set the alarm clock, had changed its time!
“Oh, my goodness!” Auntie Loretta said.
Merry Christmas to all, and may it include at least one “Oh, my goodness!” moment that will create a lasting memory.
Lorne Eckersley is the publisher of the Creston Valley Advance.