North for Christmas
By: Evelyn Marentette
Tags: Holidays, Aoe Prompt, Family, Nostalgia, Self

I grew up in a city a local DJ dubbed: Gateway to the James Bay Frontier. Located above the 48th parallel, every Christmas was white.

Christmas and snow are synonymous.

It is hard for me to envision it any other way.

When I was young, packages of handknit mittens and sweaters arrived by mail. A sign that Christmas was near. Dozens upon dozens of boxed gifts sat under our tree. New outdoor toys hidden in our attic. One year our parents gave us plastic sheets we used for runs named Cherry Rock and Suicide Hill. Cherry Rock consisted of snow covered rocky outcrops of the Precambrian shield.

A shudder still wends its way along my spine when I hear the name Suicide Hill. It was a 75-degree slant lined by trees, bushes, and rock. Not one of us ever escaped without an array of bruises.

There were times when we chose a new path only to plunge headlong off a cliff. Too late, we learned the reason no one else slid there.

Hot chocolate and oatmeal cookies.

Fresh from the oven, my mother’s oatmeal cookies appeared. Musician and games keeper, my father topped hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. In my house we read books, played board games, and listened to music.

At home, the turntable spun throughout the year. Christmas was no different. One year The Snoopy Christmas Album appeared in our music collection.

Snoopy VS Red Baron.

A band called The Quiet Jungle sang about a dog named Snoopy and the Red Baron engaged in a dogfight. Flanked by Woodstock, Snoopy battled it out with the Red Baron in the skies over a tiny village. With scant seconds remaining, in his ice-covered plane, Snoopy flew behind enemy lines. Trapped, he waited for a barrage of bullets to shoot him out of the sky.

They never came.

Above the pitch of the planes, church bells rang to signal Christmas. Instead, the Baron wished him a Merry Christmas, my friend ... in a Mexican accent?

Driving Home For Christmas is my favorite song. Chris Rea wrote it in 1978.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDt3u2Ev1cI

Chris Rea’s gravelly voice is akin to a hearty bowl of beef stew. The kind my mom prepares. It is the best welcome mat after a slippery drive through the snow. His lyrics infuse my memory with nostalgic tendrils of Christmas road trips.

I envision colored lights softened by a fresh snowfall. Snowflakes piled on the hood of my car, while I drive through a blizzard. My wipers slapping away the ones that melted on my windshield moments before.

Memories of the red glow of logs smoldering in the woodstove warm me. When all I can see is a set of tire tracks disappear on the two-lane highway. Despite other vehicles on the road, I am isolated.

The blizzard continues.

Relatives await my family and me as we head north, the blizzard continues.

Family we have not seen in years stand ready to greet us. Laughter rents the air. They help us unload our vehicle. A home-cooked meal is ready once we enter.

Dinner plates clink as busy hands remove the remnants of Christmas dinner from the table. Voices trail out of earshot and the party moves downstairs.

Lowballs filled with eggnog sweat on coasters while hot cocoa cools in mugs. A collection of drinks sit abandoned on end tables and wait for their owners to notice them.

Parents explain a new toy to baby-faced boys and girls. A movie plays in the background. Babies yawn and stretch their arms to parents. They seek comfort before they sleep.

Does it get any better than to serve alcohol-flavored truffles to friends and family? Then discover too late half the visitors are police officers on their way to work.

The song dredges up visions of gifts and wrapping paper strewn across the floor. A garbage bag, half-full, leans open against a wall. A receptacle ready for refuse. Handmade chocolates offered to my siblings by my mother, who stashed hers away. Time spent in conversation with siblings long after tucking children into bed.

Midnight stragglers arrive hours later and dive into a plate of turkey. A snack with a Christmas refreshment to whisk away the cold. All ready for dreams of sugarplum faeries when the last light goes out.

Perchance the faint memory of a morning remedy for all that Christmas cheer.