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by Eric E. Wright

 

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The village below us looked like a Christmas card remembered from childhood. Church steeples. Mill pond. Victorian brick stores. Snow gently falling. A perfect way to begin a country Christmas! We descended the steep hill onto the main street of Millbrook where coloured lights cast a warm glow. A group of carolers led by Santa Claus had gathered under a street light to sing:

Joy to the world
The Lord has come.
Let earth receive her king!

We wandered from store to store sampling hot mulled cider and goodies. Here and there I picked up the odd present. (More about that later.) Two great Clydesdales lumbered by with a wagon load of children. In the Legion Hall actors from the Fourth Line Theatre put on an impromptu concert. In spite of microphone problems and restless children, they regaled us with impersonations of Scrooge:

A donation to help the poor at Christmas?
Humbug! Why don't you send them all to the poor house?

They brought readings, sang Irish carols and some of the great hymns of Christmas:

Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King!

Silent Night, Holy Night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon virgin, mother and child,
Holy infant so tender and mild.

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie,
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.

Ah, the atmosphere of a country Christmas. Bethlehem seems nearer. The original story more poignant. If only I had my shopping done.

This year my Christmas gift list is enormous. Earlier in the year, Mary Helen backed me into a corner. Oh, I had it coming. I had made one too many caustic comments about my wife's penchant for beginning to buy Christmas presents in April. With wifely indignation, she dumped the whole job in my lap. Calling upon our kids and grandkids as her witnesses, she had solemnly assigned me the job of buying presents for the whole year! Birthdays. Anniversaries. Christmas. I knew I was in trouble. With no honourable way to back out and retain my male dignity, I had been forced to nonchalantly reply, "Hardly fair, but OK. No problem."

My ignorance of the tactical dimensions of this challenge was abysmal. When friends heard about the challenge, they hooted-especially the men. After their laughter died down, however, the men frowned their displeasure at my betrayal of male prerogatives while the women purred their praise of Mary Helen's savoir faire. Thus began a year of omnipresent presents. With six grand daughters and one grand son, I soon came unraveled. The girls informed me how much they liked clothes. With birthdays scattered throughout the year, I was doomed to wandering through children's departments in sundry stores in search of jumpers and blouses, tights and dresses. Even when my wife took a little pity on me, the task seemed hopeless. Bewildered, I settled on an alternate plan of attack. I would steer clear of clothing and concentrate on toys. No problem with the grandson, but what do girls really like? Those brand name dolls are so confusing. And here it is almost Christmas, a country Christmas at that.

A garland of Christmas trees surrounds the village store. Three angels proclaim "peace on earth" in front of the village church. Traditional candles shine in scattered windows. The row of houses north of the gas station have begun their annual competition in earnest. The light from their decorations illumines the whole valley. Christmas has come to Northumberland county--but I'm doomed to fight crowds in the mall!

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