When we were children, our family endured periods of “have not”, times that we were as the Newfoundland of the Confederation. That is to say, money was not in ready supply. We relocated frequently in search of the elusive job, often several times during a school year. The year that I was seven, we lived in a tiny, two bedroom apartment in the Channel area of Port Aux Basques. I remember little of that time as, was our habit, we were not there for long. Transient. Seagulls alighting here, there, everywhere.
Still, that Christmas holds a nugget of memory that has become precious to me. But first, some context. Here are several things that I do recall from that olden time.
I remember a network of stairs affixed to the outside of our building, access to the second story apartment units. I could see through the backless stairs to the ground below and on the rare occasions that I climbed them to run an errand (cup of sugar, stick of butter) to the senior lady upstairs, I would get queasy.
I remember the ocean, a constant companion. Channel, Port Aux Basques is essentially many fingers of land that jut out into the Atlantic. Stand anywhere and the sea is visible, be it between houses, in backyards or running companion to the street. And I would hear it, a forever backdrop to accompany every conversation, every encounter, each memory.
Inside, I think that I remember a rectangular table pressed close to a wall within a largely open space (we were open concept before open concept was cool). There was an enclosed porch where our dog, a Labrador named Coal, was forced to sleep after eating the seat from my stepdad’s truck.
I also remember my bewildered stepdad during that same period. Despite our limited financial status, despite the lack of oranges in our fridge (a fact bemoaned by our nan who sent us home with oranges individually wrapped in paper towel), he stood near that same porch door, with our phone pressed to his ear as he sponsored an African child. To appease my begging pleas after watching one of those heartbreaking ads of children with swollen bellies and tear filled eyes. A picture arrived of Dumar shortly after which my mom framed and proudly displayed in our every residence over ensuing years.
I distinctly remember that the sitcom, Three’s Company, was my one desire and I begged mom to allow me to stay up past 9 to watch it. The answer was often no, but I remember hearing the laugh track through the very thin walls in the tiny space.
I remember that my brother, Brian, and I shared a bedroom in that apartment. This being in the time before we were gifted with three baby sisters in quick succession. Brian, at three years my junior, was four. Up to that point, and for many years after, I rarely heard my name separate from my brother’s. “Tracy and Brian” was the refrain from my childhood. He was my baby brother and despite any times that I may have resentfully felt saddled by the responsibility of him, I adored him. As the elder, he was mine to watch over and protect. During the turbulence of our family’s break up and subsequent divorce, he was all that I felt sure of. So yes, we were a team, a package tied with an unruly and tangled bow.
On this Christmas circa 1978, we had completed all of the approved family traditions. The watching of Christmas specials on CBC where an animated Frosty had melted into a puddle with promises to return next year; a claymation Rudolph had overcome his oppressors to lead Santa on his delivery flight. We had opened our one customary present and had laid out our stockings.
Next came the UNapproved Christmas tradition. That one where we, unable to find sleep, stayed awake for half the night, filled with bubbling, cannot-contain-it excitement. No sugar plums danced inside our little heads. Instead, we listened for Santa. Or reindeer. Terrified they would bypass us because we were awake.
I remember that the window in our bedroom had iced over on the inside. We were enjoying what is a rarity today– a cold, wintry, NL Christmas. Using our warm little fingers and palms to melt the ice, a triumphant little spark flared in my chest each time my fingertip pushed through the lens of ice, making contact with the cool glass. We created designs and pictures, the Picassos of ice sculpture, opened up the glass to view a streetlight lit street, asked each other if it looked bright outside yet? Surely it must be morning? Wasn’t that daylight on the horizon?
After an eternity of whispers, giggles and sighs, pillow punching and window peering, we hatched a plan. Memory fails me here but I suspect the eldest (ME) coached the littlest (BRIAN) that one of us must go on a mission and leave the bedroom. The same bedroom that we had been instructed to NOT leave under any circumstance. I also cannot recall the process but am equally sure that I convinced my baby brother to tempt fate and cross the threshold. So much for protecting him when Christmas got thrown into the mix, apparently. He being a mere babe, and cute as a button to boot, he would be certain to avoid any wrath that I, as eldest and should know better, would certainly catch.
So, Brian, clad in what I recall as two-piece pyjamas, baby blue with navy cuffs and collar (an actual memory of that night or superimposed from an old photograph?) like a quivering little ninja, slunk out from our room and into the bathroom. From the bathroom, one could see directly into the living room where our tree proudly stood. His excuse if caught, of course, the need to pee. What could be said?
Now, it should be noted that in our family, Santa did not wrap his gifts to us. Rather, he stood them up about the tree, organized by person. Our first glimpse on Christmas morning was a splendor of gifts for the entire family. A plethora hand-picked from the Sears catalogue after long weeks of perusing and arranged like the window display at a toy store. Our stockings were lovingly laid next to our gifts.
I recollect that Brian was gone for an eternity. Yet there was not a sound from beyond the door. Have you ever watched the second hand on a clock and helped it countdown one minute? Felt how very long one minute could be? That kind of forever… After an absolute infinity, he scampered back in, all remembrance of stealth gone. He gushed a torrent of words while I tried to “shush” him. He was a teeny, blue-clad ball of trembling excitement. He hurled words rapid fire, a genuine GI Joe of prose. Santa had been here! He was so magically quiet that we had not heard a thing! He came! Even though we were awake! Happy joy poured from my wee brother. And deep pride because of his successful mission. He had done it! He had snooped Christmas and we were not in trouble.
Now here rests the crescendo of my story, my reason for sharing. Not only did my brother scoop the red-suited guy’s arrival, Brian had also crept to the tree side to steal a quick look at the waiting presents. He next declared with downright glee that Santa Claus had brought for me, his big sister Tracy, a…wait for it… A WIG! Yes! A WIG!
Brian danced and shimmied in those baby blue pyjamas, a veritable vessel of delight and happiness. Sent on an assignment by his big sister, he had surpassed expectations. He was a wriggling mess of unbridled happy.
While I was stunned. Shocked into quiet. A wig? Why would Santa bring me a wig? Should I be happy? Or sad? I hadn’t ASKED for a wig. But I did lament my cowlicky hair and its inability to stay in a ponytail… So, yes, perhaps Santa knew best. Perhaps a wig would be great! I would have beautiful long hair like my friends did. Maybe long, blonde ringlets would cascade down my back like a classmate long envied for her beautiful hair. (SF, if you read this, you know who I am talking about.)
After all this adventure, Brian’s baby self was spent and we finally slept until daylight crept in through our icy window and we flew to the tree like doves.
My adult self, gazing backwards through the shadowy tunnel of my memory, now realizes something significant that I was impervious to at the time. An important fact that escaped me all those years ago but is glaringly obvious to me today. The unmistakable elephant in the room is this: I have no memory of Brian telling me what HIS gift was that lay beneath our long ago tree.
My sweet brother looked for and found MY gift that lay waiting beneath our ancient, tinselled Christmas tree. He did not look for his own nor did it occur to him to do so. His Christmas joy was all for me.
That year, the spirit of Christmas was embodied in blue, two toned pyjamas. In my selfless, miniature sidekick. Inside the younger half of Tracy and Brian.
May we all remember the kindness this holiday is meant to signify. As taught to me by the smiling innocence of four year old Brian Cecil Elms.
Oh, and the wig?
Somehow my breathlessly anticipated Donny and Marie Osmond Barbies had disguised themselves as a tawny hairpiece on that long departed night.
That’ll teach us for snooping.