The town's marooned for a week. Even the big rail plow can't punch through. Yeast is dropped for the bakery from a small plane. I listen to another Toronto tradition, a broadcast from Toyland on the fifth floor of Eaton's. Another rare treat, because usually the radio's on only for Jim Hunter's 8 a.m. and 6.30 p.m. news broadcasts and for the soap operas before noon and from 3-4 p.m.
Few families trim the tree earlier because no one sits in the parlor unless there's company.
No games, and not much fun. And so to sleep. My dream is as rich as any Christmas cake, of Dickens, the Gospels and Old Country tales. The Christmases yet to come will see the whistles silenced as the factory closes, the trains stop, the school burns and Simpsons disappears. Which may be where the best of Christmas is always found.