It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

I am from the east coast, where, I am told families are closer than elsewhere in Canada. I buy that. You'll never take the maritimer out of me. Nothing strums the heart strings of a maritimer more than Christmas. My last Christmas at home was in 1984, being in the retail business I understand why I can't take time off during the holidays. The worst time was shortly after I left home. The ties were strongest, the wounds created by the newly severed apron strings were still fresh.


Those were different days in the north as well. The Internet had not appeared, there were no emails, you could not send pictures at the speed of light. There was no streaming video. There were phones, to be sure. A ten minute call cost $17.00 in off hours, more than $30.00 during day time hours. The problem was that there were only four outgoing lines in small northern towns, and that only got you as far as the next switchboard. A Christmas call home was a four or five hour commitment, no redial on phones up north then. As my family had so much to do it fell to me to place the call. I could hardly wait for those precious few minutes. There is so much you can tell by hearing a voice, so much more than can be put in even the most eloquent letter. Letters were the only other alternative. When my Father passed away I found many of my early letters in his papers. It almost seemed they were written by someone else. They were most often typed, as my handwriting is like drunken hen footprints. They weren't bad, though. and they were cheap. For about half a buck you could get stamp, paper and envelope. In those days I made only $10.000 a year. Out of that I had to pay $200 a month to repay my travel costs. My phone bill was about the same so I was left with only about $200.00 a month. Luckily My rent and food were paid for.


The one good thing about the north especially in those days was that there were plenty of other maritimers doing the same thing. Teachers, RCMP, and many other jobs were held by ex-maritimers.


I don't know why but I have always looked for a special moment at Christmas, a specil event that would give meaning or somehow encapsulate the season. In almost every year I have found it. Some times I think it will not happen and then boom, there it is. I do not know why I expect this, if it is from some story I had read or what. The events are often not spectacular, sometimes even simple. But they are always identifiable. Somehow I know them each year when they occur. They do not always occur but more often than not they do. One such event occurred my third Christmas away from home.


That winter was cold and crisp in the small native community of Fox Lake in northern Alberta. The community of 900 was on the banks of the Peace River, the mighty river was frozen, its' brawly waters softened beneath an even mantle of deep white powdery snow. The village itself, a dusty place in summer was likewise shrouded in white. Its' older log homes looked like Currier and Ives scenes as their lights, often coal oil, in those days, twinkled in the cold, clear nights. Newer houses shone as well, they could have been anywhere. But the elders then still lived very traditionally, their small log homes set back in the trees, often a tee pee stood in the yard and a stretching frame for moose hides. There were racks for drying fish, often for dog food, to feed the dog teams. There were several new yellow school buses, but most kids went to school in wagons pulled by a team of horses. The kids preferred the horse drawn wagons as they were heated by a small stove referred to as a "Cherry Cooker" as it inevitably glowed red. The wagons had blankets too, unlike the drafty school buses which would barely be getting warm when the kids arrived at school.


These were busy times in the north as well, although you have to consider the baseline. We started from a much slower pace. "You're on Indian time now." I had been told when I first went north, you just had to get used to it. I love watching rookie government officials waiting for some meeting to start, looking at their watches, fidgeting, pacing, fretting. You just have to Tell them, "this too shall pass, chill." I doubt there is even a Cree word for stress. People were busy getting their furs ready for sale, baking bannock and goodies for family who would soon return from the trapline. There was hunting to be done, a nice rack of Moose ribs or a tender Moose roast makes a nice Christmas dinner and Kokum and Mosom(Grandma and Grandpa) would need food too. Turkey was not a necessity on the tables of Fox lake on Christmas night. Bing Crosby could be heard on the omnipresent radios, but soon there would be live music, as most families had a fiddler, some one who played guitar and more than one person with a good voice. There was wood to be cut and presents to be wrapped. Many presents would be home made, exquisite moccasins and beaded gloves. Moosehide mukluks with warm duffel liners, perhaps a set of snow shoes with moose hide babiche lacing. There would be some made for sale too. The ones made for the Moniyaw would be fancier and less durable, but beautiful and they would have that wonderful smoke tanned smell of real, native tanned moose hide.


The store would be a beehive, people cashing cheques, selling furs, buying food and traps, picking up and dropping off mail. We would be open extra hours and we would be stressed enough for everybody. The store was as much a public meeting place as it was a place of commerce. There were only four public buildings in Fox lake in those days, the Nursing Station, the School and the Church were the other three. The store manager or Okimawiw, was a position of some importance in those days. People would bring in their taxes, their light bills, even letters from television evangelists for us to interpret. The elders spoke some English but were far more comfortable in their own language. I made an effort to learn some Cree and could do the office work in Cree which was popular with the elders, they met me more than half way, they delighted in my mispronunciations and I can only imagine what I was actually saying as sometimes they would howl with laughter at what was coming out of my mouth. But it was good natured as they were tickled that I would even try to speak Nehiyawewin.


We would order extra stuff for Christmas, which comes at a rather inconvenient time, being just before the winter road opened. Nonetheless we would stockpile goods like pop and candy, and we would have lots of beads, stroud, duffel and cloth. Playing cards by the gross as this was the preferred method of passing the long winter nights. There were bright kerchiefs for nookum, Copenhagen snuff for kokum. Rattles and toys for the babies. Of course the teenagers like teens anywhere wanted the latest things. Axes and skinning knives for Dad, maybe if he was lucky a new rifle. The mood was upbeat and the whole village would be at church on Christmas eve.


On Christmas eve, before mass and after the store had closed, which it did earlier than normal, I was making my way "downtown" which meant toward the school and nursing station. I had agreed to help a friend put together some toys he had bought for his daughters. The snow was squeaky as I walked the short distance, it would not be worth warming up my truck. It was snowing softly, the flakes falling straight down, as there was no wind to speak of. The night was dark as the moon had not risen or was behind a cloud. I revelled in the walk, watching people coming and going from houses, laden with parcels. Skidoos zipped by pulling laden toboggans their lone headlight stabbing at the darkness and catching the flakes in their golden cones of light. The driver would wave as would the rider at the back of the toboggans. Smoke curled from chimneys and I knew that the little airtight stove inside would be glowing . It was not home but it was not bad.


The kids were still awake when I arrived so we sat around and had a hot coffee. Short breads and fruitcake were on plates on the counter. The tree was in the corner of the living room, the floor beneath it still empty of the boxes and packages that would soon fill the space to overflowing. The kids were watching there final animated Christmas show before heading off to bed. I relished the thought of how excited they would be the next day when they had seen the things that we would be putting together. Before long they were hugging and kissing everyone and trundling off to bed. Then we sat cross legged on the floor and started opening boxes putting together a small doll house with working lights and a sink that really pumped water. There was a small bike with about a thousand parts. Soon we were laughing and joking as we struggled with the horrible instructions. The girls made only one attempt to get up but were headed off by their Mother before they could reach the living room.


Then we heard something, something so pure and so sweet I thought it must be coming from the television which was still on in the corner, though no one paid it much mind. We rose and went to the window. The curtains were pulled back and we stared for a long second in disbelief. The sound was sleigh bells. We opened the front door and stood on the front deck with our boots hastily pulled on. The moon was out in full now and the night seemed inky blue. The snow still fell, big downy flakes that fell straight down and melted on our eyelashes. In front of us was one of the school bus sleighs, with the cover removed. The horses were decked in red blankets I had never seen before which looked like they were reserved for just this occasion. They were also fitted with sleigh bells and as the sleigh coasted to a stop the horses flipped their heads and the bells sang out in the silent night. Their breath rose in steamy clouds in the still air, there being not a breath of wind. If it was cold I do not remember it we all wrapped only in shirtsleeves and awe. As the sleigh stopped they stood, our neighbors, locals and others who were spending Christmas here. They rose and began to sing, they stood there holding songbooks like something from a Christmas card. There voices sounded so sweet, so resonant in the night air. They sang two carols, one in English, one in Cree. Then the rider rose, the carolers sat and the horses shook their heads and with a sleigh bell encore they were gone, to the next house. We stood for a moment as they faded away from view swallowed up by a veil on snowflakes the bells softly fading. A small thing, a few short moments that defined that Christmas. An act of kindness by neighbors that bridged a gap that helped close a wound. That gave me a moment of sublime peace after those many weeks of pandemonium. It is the small things that really count. In the words of that song, that still resonate after twenty years "It came upon a midnight clear..."