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Christmas in the Thirties

a short essay by Stuart Kolbinson ca 1991

Preparations for the Christmas feast would have begun in November, when the turkey chosen for the dinner would be fattened up, and kept safe in the barn in case it would fall victim to a hungry coyote. Then, too, a whole day would be spent in mixing and baking the Christmas cake which would then be put in a stoneware crock in the cellar to "age."

The Eaton's catalogue would be read and re-read, especially the toy section, and an order sent away. Mysterious parcels would be at the post office for us and we kids were warned not to snoop into the cupboard where they were stored. I hoped that by some magic there would be a model train for me, but they were expensive and only city boys whose Dads were bank managers or some other high official would be likely to have one under the tree on Christmas morning.

Actually, we had no tree, that was another luxury we couldn't afford. The only tree in the district was the one the school board bought for the Christmas concert at the school. It was always auctioned off, and Ben Stocks always got it because he was working on the railroad and was the only one in the district who had a monthly cheque.

Christmas was also by far the best time in school, because instead of boring lessons, time would be taken to practise for the concert. It was a big occasion and everybody came, even the bachelors in their best and only suits.

The days grew darker and colder, and the snow drifted deep into the hedges and trees, making a good place to dig tunnels or forts. There were no "snowmen" because to make those you had to have snow that was practically melting, and we would have to wait many months for that. This snow was crisp, and in places where the wind had a good sweep at it, it could be cut with a saw into blocks for building our versions of igloos, or more often, forts.

On Christmas Eve we kids would be sent to bed early, but it seemed we would never get to sleep. We were always sure we could stay awake and catch old Santa at this chores, but we never did. Dad would have the radio on and we could hear choirs and midnight Mass being sung in some far distant city, which was a wonderful experience. Here we were, snug in bed while the best choirs in the world sang us to sleep.

Some one or other of us would wake up while it was still dark and cold, but no matter, out of bed, never mind the cold floor, and sure enough, "Santa's been here!" All the kids would be awake in an instant, and our parents too, for we had to wake them up to show them "what Santa brought!" I knew there was no Santa, of course, and I really didn't expect a train set, because I knew my parents couldn't afford it. Still, it was nice to imagine there really was such a wonderful creation as Santa Claus, and if we wished hard enough maybe he would spring to life and make all the youngsters of the world happy on that day.

No day could begin without porridge for breakfast, and Christmas day was no exception, except on Christmas morning there was always "raisin porridge." I was told that it was a Kolbinson family tradition from the times when they were first in the new country and too poor to have anything special for Christmas except the luxury of a few raisins in their porridge. I believe some still carry on that tradition, even if it is the only time of year when porridge is made.

The Christmas I am describing would be when I was eleven or twelve (1930 or '31), when it really was a magical time. It would be cold, but not too cold, that would come later in January; say about fifteen or twenty below Zero Fahrenheit. I don't know what that would be in Celsius because we never heard of such a thing in those days.

One year Christmas dinner would be at Johnson's, and New Year's dinner at our place; next year it would be our turn to have Christmas dinner and the New Year's dinner would be at Johnson's. In any case, the feasts would be the same on both days, no matter where it was held, and the menus were also traditional, only changing a bit when times got better and we were older.

The cow would be milked, and the livestock watered and fed a double ration for Christmas, also a family tradition. Dad would hitch the team to the sleigh which would have lots of straw on the floor, and seats and blankets would be carried out for the women so that they wouldn't get cold. The men and boys always stood up, probably it was thought to be a macho thing to do even though they froze their cheeks and noses. The team would be anxious to go, and we were off for the three-and-a-half mile drive to Johnson's.

Soon we arrived, and I can still hear Aunt Bertha shouting "Merry Christmas!" We all rushed into the house while Dad and Uncle Art unharnessed the team and put them in the warm barn with a manger full of oat sheaves. It was a feast day for everyone, animals included. As we entered the kitchen we would be greeted by the smells of all the good things Aunt Bertha had been preparing since early morning. The table would be decorated with candles and sprays of pine branches cut from their own trees, for Johnsons were among the few who were able to grow evergreens in that part of the prairies.

In no time at all we would be seated at the table and the great platters of food would be passed around. Besides the turkey, there's be mashed potatoes laced with butter, corn, sweet turnips, cranberry sauce, pickles, olives (which were a luxury that only appeared at Christmas time), dressing and lots of gravy, and chewy home-made bread. There would be tea for the older ones and milk for the youngsters. Then came the Christmas steamed pudding with vanilla sauce, topped with a spoonful of "Hard Sauce," a confection of icing sugar and butter that was very rich. Oh, it was a grand feast!

My cousin Eldon and I would lay down on his bed and groan, we were so full! We were sure we would not be hungry for the rest of the day, at least. But after the dishes were washed, and our parents made ready to play bridge, someone was sure to suggest we go out and play "Giant," a game we had made up which was very simple. We would go out to the stacks of sheaves, one kid would be nominated the "giant," and a spot would be chosen as "home" - a safe place where we could not be caught and eaten by the giant - and we were ready to begin. The giant would go and hide someplace, then the rest would venture out of their safe place and go looking for trouble, which is a natural things for humans to do, it seems. When the giant appeared, everyone ran for the safe place as if our lives depended on it, the girls screaming at the top of their lungs, since there were no parents around to tell them to be quiet. The giant would be careful not to catch the smaller, slower ones, that would spoil the fun for everybody. When the giant got tired, he would catch one of the bigger kids who would be the new "giant." We played this game for years, around those oat-sheave stacks, like huge beehives, carefully built by Uncle Art for winter feed for his livestock.

As a matter of fact, I have played "Giant" with all my kids when they were little, and still play it nearly every day with any little grandchild who happens to be around and is able to run. Instead of the stacks, we have doors through which we can sneak, or hallways where there are doors which can be slammed in the face of the pursuing giant. Instead of a hollow in the straw where the pursued can flop into without hurting themselves, we have an upholstered couch or an overstuffed chair that they instinctively choose as "home," where the giant can't reach them. It is easy to get the game started. All I have to do, is get Heather (4), Patty (3) or Mary (2) to notice me advancing towards them with a furtive air, shoulders hunched, eyes rolling, and they are off, screaming with pretended fear, for their soft "home base." The giant retreats and hides, and at once the little ones come looking for him, ready to be chased home again. This goes on until I get tired or a parent, no longer able to endure the 130-decibel screaming, calls a halt.

I think childrens' fascination with the game of "Giant" is in some way the vestigial memory of pre-civilization. From cave-man days, when the hunters and food gatherers had to leave the safety of the cave and the fire to search for food in spite of the dangerous sabre-toothed tiger or hungry bear, or perhaps the even more dangerous war parties of other clans. Often they must have run for the safety of their homes, the adrenalin pouring into their bloodstream to lend wings to their flight!

I think the fascination of the "Giant" game for the little ones today, is the joy of being chased to safety, knowing they are in no danger. All children love to pretend.

The sun sets early on December 25th, and the coming darkness and the creeping chill of a prairie winter's night suddenly reminded the children that they were getting cold -- and hungry. So off to the house we would run, first sweeping the snow from one-another's clothes before taking them inside, so that they would not get damp.

There would be a great heap of turkey sandwiches and coffee for the big folks, cocoa for the little ones. Nothing I have ever eaten in the restaurants of Paris or New York tasted as good as those turkey sandwiches with home-baked bread.

Earlier in the day, Aunt Bertha had made a custard of eggs, sugar, cream and vanilla, and poured it into the gallon ice cream machine. Now it was the boys' turn to get to work. The ice would have been chopped into small pies, and poured into the space between the can and the wooden bucket in which it sat. Coarse salt would be scattered among the chunks of ice, the handle and turning gears clamped onto the lid, and the tedious job of turning the handle would begin. This would go on for hours, it seemed to the boy on the handle, but eventually after draining the water from the melting ice and filling it up again with more ice and salt, the increasing stiffness would signal that the cream was freezing at last. When it got too stiff, the tinned paddles would be taken out, and the lid replaced, covered with ice and set out in the porch to "age." As a reward, the boy who had turned the handle would get to lick the new ice cream sticking to the paddles.

Even during the worst of the drought years, Bertha and Art always had a good garden. They grew strawberries, too, and in late June or early July Bertha would make a jam out of these fresh, ripe berries which she poured onto your dish of ice cream. The tart, yet sweet strawberries and the rich ice cream together, accompanied by moist fruit cake, made a dessert never surpassed by Escoffier or any other famous chef.

The lamps had been lit for hours, more coal was put into the stove and heater against the old outside, and the games begun. There would be a crokinole and checkers tournament while the parents played bridge. Meanwhile the nutcracker was passed from hand to hand as filberts, walnuts, brazilnuts and almonds were cracked open and eaten.

About eight o'clock Dad would decide it was time to head for home. While the men went out to harness and hitch the horses, we would scurry around looking for lost mitts, scarves and other items until finally everybody was bundled up and ready to climb into the sleigh. More straw had been tossed on the floor and the blankets were warm from having been taken into the house earlier. We were off!

I remember the moon was shining so brightly, reflected by the snow, the stars seemed to be nearer than at any other time. We had tied a child's handsleigh behind the big sleigh and kids took turns riding it...... on our stomachs so our faces were only a few inches above the snow which seemed to rush past at terrific speed.

When we reached Mose Johnson's place, all in darkness, an animal that looked like a small, woolly bear would come rushing at us. It was Mose's old dog who liked to nip at the hells of the horses, barking all the while. I would roll off the little sleigh and running for dear life, jump into the big sleigh before the old dog had a chance to nip at my heels. Great fun, a sort of "giant" game except that we pretended the dog was a man-eating tiger instead of a giant.

In no time at all we were home. Dad tied up the team while he came in to change into his chore clothes. Mother and I carried the sleeping little ones into the house. Mother, who was the fireman, and a good one, soon had the stove and heater roaring back to life, while Dad did the chores and milked the cow.

I usually stayed at Johnson's, or Eldon came home with us for a few days. This time, however, Eldon had had to stay home in punishment for some mischief, or else Viv had insisted it was her "turn." At any rate I remember we had several games of checkers before being sent to bed. She was a worthy opponent, and good fun.

And so a memorable Christmas passed into history, a happy time with no school for days to come, and another feast to look forward to, on New Year's day and this time at our place.

In later years, more luxuries appeared on the table, elaborate games of Charades were played instead of "Giant," and even some toasts were drunk with real wine. But we still had a great time, though without TV or elaborate and expensive toys. We made our own fun together, and that is the best way.

Now Dad and Mother, Uncle Art and Aunt Bertha are no longer with us, they have been laid to rest along with other relatives and their neighbours in the bleak Kindersley cemetery. They left us with memories of happy times, of fun and laughter and good food shared together in spite of drought and depression which must have been a worry to them. They made the best of what they had, no one could do more. And they, like the reformed Mr. Scrooge, knew how to celebrate Christmas. God Bless Them, every one!