Although we didn't receive any instructions at home regarding Santa Claus, we still went into Sundre to watch for his arrival. The celebrity flew in, his small plane piloted by Jack Morgan, and buzzed the downtown a few times before landing just west of town at the tiny airport. Santa was driven back in an older model half-ton truck, “ho ho ho”-ing all the way.
We were herded together in little groups, encouraged to sing carols while we waited in the parking lot of the creamery building. I first heard The Little Drummer Boy in the frigid wintry morning, our words frozen in mid-air. Maybe not, but it was always bitterly cold in my memory of our childhood winters. We were each given a small candy bag, a reward for our troubles.
While we were attending Bergen Missionary Church, we participated in the Sunday school Christmas concert and program. Afterward, while the adults enjoyed hot coffee and a visit, the younger children received yet another candy bag. I'm pretty sure that most of us had been in line at both events. Ours was a generation of “not a lot” to get by. The giving of the candy bags was in some cases the only gift a child might receive and it was regarded with astonishment.
At our house, we had stockings to be filled Christmas night. They were our own, or maybe dad's well-worn stockings, thin and carefully darned. We woke in the morning to find them bulging with a mandarin orange tucked into the toe, a few mixed nuts, a generous offering of pretty ribbon-striped hard peppermint candies, the kinds we can still buy from Heritage Park. Sweet, hard as a rock and by the time you had managed to finish, your poor tongue was cut and sore. Wonderful treat.
We each received a small toy if it fit in the stocking. There were a few other gifts. We girls had a nice doll each and over the years mom continued to fashion clothes for dolls. We later progressed to a favourite sweater or a novel to read. I read all the Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twins series.
We always had the Christmas oranges. Mom and dad couldn't afford a lot of extravagances but the sweet treats were purchased regularly. We were awarded one each evening; Larry very carefully removed all the white membranes from his. It was a ritual, piece by piece, like plucking loose threads from a cloth.
We also had a consistent flow of homemade fudge. Carol and I made it with grandma's recipe, a heavy, over-sweet mixture that called for a cup of flour. The good point of the flour was that there was no beating required. My skinny wrists never held up well in that kind of strain.
Mom also bought the mixed nuts in bulk: walnuts, filberts, almonds, hazelnuts. At the time all were purchased still in the shell. Every home had a pair of nutcrackers and you had to work to gain the meat hidden inside.
Mom was a skilled baker; she was often found with her fingers coated in cookie or bread dough.
She made doughnuts too, in a deep fat fryer on the wood-burning cookstove. She made a rich fruit bread, but not the traditional fruitcake that my mother-in-law made. I would think it was just too costly, plus the fact that it wasn't a part of Mom's heritage. I do remember the folks bought fruitcake from time to time, an acquired taste. People either love and crave it or they can't stand it.
I heard of one family that actually gave the dreaded cake as a Christmas gift. It made a regular secret appearance in one family after another, rewrapped and re-gifted. I don't understand why someone didn't just donate it to the nearest Dumpster. Maybe I missed the point?
"We were herded together in little groups, encouraged to sing carols while we waited in the parking lot of the creamery building."
