Reflecting back seems to be the theme this holiday season. I want to share with you something Trish sent us to post. This is the time to reflect back at family traditions and the love shared between them. This time of year seems to bring out some of the fondest memories so sit back with a mug of hot chocolate and enjoy a thoughtful heart warming memory from Trish....

A Prairie Christmas
By Trish Shields

I remember having Christmas with my parents a few years ago.  It was really the last time we were all together with my parents under one roof.  I had my husband and kids, as did my other siblings.  It was a full house, to say the least. 

It was a typical Albertan winter, with lots of snow, ice crystals hanging in the air, and the sound of cattle lowing in the distance.  My parents have a metal roof on their house, so the crisp cold silence of the Christmas season was punctuated by a roar that was quickly followed by a loud crunch as the snow slid off the roof. 

Every year my mother would dangle snow shoes in from of our faces, leaving it up to us kids as to whether we want to accompany her and Dad on their brisk afternoon walks around the sheep shed, the horse bard and parts west. I can still hear the squeak the snow made as we carefully made our way across its frozen surface one afternoon shortly before Christmas.  It was one of those deceptively beautiful days where the sun is shining and the sky is an impossible blue, making you want to throw back the hood of your parka, remove your gloves and soak in the brilliance.  And yet you know in your heart that if you were foolish enough to do such a thing, you'd be sporting white spots on the tips of any exposed bits of flesh before too long. 

My parents have two dogs, one a Springer Spaniel and the other a Sky Blue Terrier.  That day, the two dogs were running ahead and scampering back to us as we made our way across the property.  The smaller of the dogs had bits of ice stuck to her coat that no amount of wriggling would dislodge.  She was a funny dog, all matted fur and sparkling eyes.  She had personality personified, evidenced by the way her whole body shook with glee when she wagged her tail at just about everything the world had to offer.  The larger dog ran on pure curiosity, leaving the finer points of personality to his companion. 

As we slogged along over the ice and snow drifts, small gifts of brown matted fur would periodically be laid in front of my mother; the crushed corpse of a mouse a token of the terrier's devotion.  Both dogs were mousers and made short work of anything that had the gall to actually pop their heads up out of the snow. 

Some days have a cold wind that blows right through a person, regardless of the protection worn.  Other days grace the inhabitants of this small valley just south of Calgary with Chinook winds that can raise the temperature and allow you to actually walk about coatless.  However, this wasn't one of them.  It was so cold that the air had condensed around the faux fur circling my hood.  My eyelashes were white and brittle, making me blink like a thoughtful owl.  My father would periodically look back at my husband and I, making sure we weren't lagging behind.  My husband would smile, the ends of his mustache heavy with ice, and we'd pick up the pace. 

Dad pointed to an area at the top of the hill he referred to as the Bee Hill, and we all chatted about how happy the day would be when my husband and I built a house on that exact spot. It was my parent's fondest wish that all of their children return and make the ranch their home.  Because it was at least a two hour drive from 'civilization', the chances of us all moving back while my parents were alive was sadly a slim chance at best. 

The hill got its name from a time in distant years where my folks thought they could raise bees to keep themselves well stocked with honey.  However, bees can be quite cantankerous and very unwilling to share.  Now it was the designated toboggan hill.  My husband had attempted to show my younger brother the joys of alpine skiing, but watching him telemark once was enough to dissuade anyone - his beauty and symmetry was unequalled. 

We took a different route back to the house.  My mother and father hugged each other as they came upon an area of snow all trampled down.  'The elks are back,' my mother said proudly.  We stood and thought about the beauty of nature all around us, just waiting to be enjoyed.  I thought about my hectic life and how being close to nature when I visited my parents made the time with them extra special. 

My father pulled his heavy mitts off with his teeth, inspected his watch quickly and announced that it really was going to get dark in a hurry.  We had a good twenty-minute hike in front of us, and as I drew in a great breath, I was reminded of just how rapidly the temperature was dropping.  The resulting stab of pain in my head was akin to what you get when you eat ice cream too quickly.  It's always surprising to find that the length of any return trip depends on how cold the temperature is.  Our trip home was very short indeed. 

As we came over a rise, I looked over the drifts as the sun's glare began to wane.  It seemed pure magic to me to watch the snow turn from a brilliant white to a dull light blue.  This colour deepened as the hour grew late, but instead of giving an ominous pall to things, it made me feel somehow sheltered and safe.  Although this place that my parent's had retired to never had been my home, at that moment I felt the very word dancing at the end of my tongue. 

We could see the yard light, and I immediately thought of how good the hot chocolate was going to taste.  My fingers tingled with anticipation.  The cedar log house that had been my parent's had built looked warm and cozy; the Christmas tree lights blinked like a beacon to lost souls over the vast expanse of the frozen prairie.  It's always so nice to be able to see a comforting light across what look to be endless fields, but it can be a little daunting to realize that things aren't as close as they first appear. 

As the darkness descended and we settled into a rhythm, our snowshoes whispering over the snow, we momentarily forgot just how cold it was and how very far we still had to go.  I thought of my children, and how easy it was for them to forget about the cold.  When my son was younger, he would stay outside for hours, all bundled up and looking like the Michelin Man.  He would deny his frozen body and refuse our entreaties to come in and get warm.  It was almost like the winter wonderland he had outside would cease to exist once he entered the house.  As I looked around me, I could see how he could believe it.  My whole world was this moment in time when I was surrounded by the love my parents had always given me.  I was rather surprised to look up and see that we'd arrived back at the sheep paddock. 

My husband and I watched my parents move off to check on the livestock.  Birthing on the farm occurs either late December or in the first few weeks of the New Year, keeping my folks more than just a little busy.  The room they had built just for this reason was all stocked and ready to go. 

I could see the heat lamps in the enclosed area as they swung back and forth. I watched my mother as she prepared the special formula they fed the orphans.  The first year my parents began raising sheep was a bit of a shock - hearing that a mother will reject her offspring is one thing, but to actually witness it and live with the results is quite another.  Over the years, they had built a special building where they kept the expectant ewes and their small newborns until the weather warmed enough for them to gambol about on the melting snow.  It was during these times that my mother and father really appreciated the Chinook wind. 

As my mother put the prepared formula into bottles, my lips curled into a smile.  She is one of those people who most likely were destined to be mothers from birth.  Everything and anything that came into her life was to be loved and nurtured. 

We stood in the snow, waving at the kids standing in the large bay window at the front of the house.  I could see by the look on my son's face that he wanted to join us.  I flexed my fingers and decided that not only was he not coming out, but that I was definitely coming in. 

The heavenly smells of my mother's baking swaddled me as I opened the basement door and came inside.  Even with all the time saving devices at her fingertips, my mother prefers to bake bread from scratch.  I inhaled deeply, mouth watering with anticipation of having a nice slice of fresh hot bread to go with the hot drink. 

It was very nice to stand in front of the large stone fireplace and thaw out.  I couldn't help but be transported back in time when I noticed the brass hooks hanging under the mantle, just ready for the stockings that would soon be put up.  My grandmother had made felt Christmas stockings for all of us when I was a small child.  It was a tangible family connection that I loved dearly to be enjoyed each year no matter where I was living at the time. 

My older brother was sitting in the rocking chair that my grandmother had owned and all of his nieces and nephews clamoured for his attention.  He's a big man who rarely sits still, instead immersing himself in work.  Having him here at Christmas was a big deal.  While he kept the children enthralled, I took in the joyous setting and just relaxed. 

My parents had built this house to my father's specifications shortly after he'd retired from the Armed Forces.  It was a warm home filled with knick-knacks picked up by my parents as they traveled all over the world.  It was easy to think of this house as being in a fashion magazine.  It had a fireplace that reached to the high vaulted ceiling and was made from the stones taken from the nearby creek on the property.  The cathedral ceiling had lovely red cedar beams running the full length, and the gold wall-to-wall carpet seemed to bring out the rich colour of the wood grain throughout the house. 

There were so many memories wrapped up like Christmas presents as I sat near the fire and watched my family interact.  My parents offered hot rum toddies to the adults and hot chocolate for the kids.  I was happy to wrap my hands around the hot mug as I helped my mother in the kitchen.  After very little wheedling, she gave in and let me have a nice big hunk of fresh hot bread as long as I promised not to spoil my supper. 

After all the children were fed and we'd pushed ourselves away from the delicious home made mincemeat pie, we took seats in the adjoining living room.  My father had his camera and tripod set up and we all shared a private joke. So much of our lives was frozen in celluloid, that it was common practice to see Dad with his camera wherever he went.  Until I had children of my own, I truly believed there could never be anyone as photographed as we had been.  My sister and brothers and I had perpetuated that hobby, and a multitude of photographs were always exchanged throughout the year. 

The next day was filled with last minute preparations for the big feast on Christmas Day.  Mom conjured up heady delights from old cookbooks and her wonderful memory.  Pies of all description lay on the shelves of the basement fridge:  eggnog, pecan, apple, lemon meringue, and mincemeat.  With the obligatory hard-sauce of course.  This confection was made with real butter and icing sugar.  One just couldn't have apple pie without it and a slice of aged cheddar cheese. 

This year, my mother and I decided that we'd make a couple of different Christmas cakes:  dark, medium and light.  I had piqued her interest when I told her of a recipe I'd found that called for candied ginger. And what was Christmas cake without marzipan icing?  We be working late into the night. 

The children retired to the den upstairs and watched an annual favourite: The Wizard of Oz.  I've never been able to figure out why that plays at this time of the year, but we all watch it avidly just the same.  And as my oldest came down to ask me if flying monkeys really existed, I was put in mind of my younger sister asking that very question years ago. 

My mother had taken out the turkey to thaw in the fridge four days earlier, and would be up at 6:30 Christmas Day morning to put it into the oven.  There would be no fashionably late dinner this day!  It was tradition to eat our special dinner early in the day, and we all looked forward to hot turkey sandwiches with all the trimmings at around 8 o'clock that night. 

Christmas morning was always such a special time when I was a kid.  We were always awake hours before our parents were.  We could usually cool our heels until 7 o'clock, but after that time there were no guarantees that one of us wouldn't sneak downstairs to check if Saint Nick had been there. 

January 2, 2004

 Trish

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