Holiday Gift Ideas & Traditions Blog

I think back to Change Islands in the twenties. Christmas didn’t start then, as it does now, back in November. In October, we had to get ready for Bonfire Night in early November and rest awhile; then came Advent, a solemn season when we were supposed to get ready in mind and spirit for the coming of the Savior, and hold ourselves back if tempted to anticipate too excessively what lay ahead. Just a few days before Christmas Day, toys would be on display in the shops and a few decorations here and there. The Christmas tree had not yet become popular and in our case was only seen in the Church and perhaps the Lodge if there was going to be a children’s party.

Behind us children lay the school concert and Christmas exams; behind adults lay the squarin’ up, trips up the bay for wood, the stowing away of fishing gear, the hauling up of boats and the killing of the pig and saltwater birds. Adults intended to celebrate Christmas with the minimum of work and maximum of fun and, in their way, enjoy it as much as children did. We became almost obsessed with the prospect of mummering at night, and sliding during the day and visiting homes for syrup or peppermint with cake and cheese.

And so Christmas Day came and the community met in Church either at midnight or Christmas morning and celebrated as one big family an event of long ago involving one small family. And we thought about it for the rest of the day as we ate and played and visited grandparents and aunts and uncles and a few special friends.

Then came St. Stephen’s Day - Boxing Day now - and for twelve days and nights there was celebration, not necessarily to do with the Christ child but with many a child of nature of pre- or non-Christian society. There’s nothing especially Christian or un-Christian about feasting, mummering, or enjoying a drop of stuff for a season. It’s just a natural thing to do if you can find the right occasion, and most of us are pleased that the Church in her wisdom retained many of the customs of the pagan world for our enjoyment. The main thing was, and still is, to keep the balance right, to keep Christ in Christmas as well as a few other nice things and try to get rid of some of the ridiculous excesses of today in costly presents and terribly expensive habits. There must surely be a return to simplicity and controlled celebration and spending.

I mentioned that I am thinking mainly of the twenties. I used to quiz my father about his day and the goings-on then. He was born in 1886 and was therefore fourteen at the turn of the century. He lived till 1979, in his ninety-third year. When he was a boy they used to do the Mummers’ Play. It was brought to

Change

Islands by Justinian Dowell who came there as teacher in the 1870s and remained till his death early in this century. The play belongs to the hero-combat form, and could well have been forgotten but for Joe Peckford, a Change Islander living in Gander Bay, who remembered it word for word pretty well. He and my father were good friends and I often heard the latter recite large sections. It’s worth reading; see the section “Newfoundland Mummers’ Plays: Three Printed Texts” in Halpert and Story’s Christmas Mumming in

Newfoundland. By my time, a generation later, it had vanished. We simply went mummering, with the emphasis on concealing our identity in voice and attire and visiting all the homes we could manage on any given night and having all the fun we could make.

But, apart from this, other things went on among adults. The people were not heavy drinkers and went most of the year without liquor; but they liked a drop of stuff for times of celebration. At the turn of the century rum was cheap and very strong, so strong that when taken on an empty stomach it was referred to as ‘a punch in the gut’. It really was like being hit; it cut its way down. And the old-timers brought over from their home countries a word for a drink or a swallow, namely a horn (which was pronounced ‘ham’ down home). You could hear an old-timer shouting to some buddy on a cold, frosty morning “Come in for a ham 0′ rum.” Exactly how much a horn was I don’t know, but it came up to a certain point on a glass and most people knew how much a tipple should be. It was certainly very strong but no one would dream of spoiling it with water. No wonder a Change Islander said about ten years ago when we were down there, ” ‘Tis not rum at all now, too wake” (weak) and with a disgusted grin told of a St. John’s fellow “down here the other day who wanted water in hees”.

At times of celebration there was a drop around, and some made it if they couldn’t buy it. Imagine all through the Christmas season groups of men going from house to house and settling in one house for a feed and a game of Auction 45s. An old man described it to me most dramatically and I could well imagine the empty feeling when Christmas was over. The hard thing was trying to get back to work, especially if you knew that somebody had a drop left.

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“Christmas is not what it used to be,” we wail. “It’s just a commercial farce. Just matters of get, get, get and buy, buy, buy, and the more money you spend the better. Christmas has been commercialized beyond repair. Ah, for the good old days.”

I wonder if Christmas was ever “what it used to be”.

Don’t we all think of the good things that happened to us in childhood as the absolute ultimate in happiness? And won’t our own children, in ten, twenty, thirty years time, look back on the Christmases of the swinging sixties and moan that Christmas is just not what it used to be?

Children, after all, are the lucky ones. It’s not their worry if we get all our cakes baked in time, polish off our housecleaning and complete our gift list. They just know that, come Christmas Eve, a kind of magic will transform the house that has been in slings for the past month, the shimmering tree will be in place and mother will wear a smile again instead of that grim look around her mouth. We older ones forget that this will happen, but the children remember. And, cynic though I am sometimes, never have I been able to escape being possessed by that shining Christmas Eve feeling. It comes suddenly, and it doesn’t last very long, but I do think that life would be much poorer without it.

Some of my most unforgettable Christmases were spent in that part of

St. John’s that doesn’t really exist any more. I’m talking about the old South Side, the little town within a town that vanished a few years ago to make way for harbor development.

Perhaps even more than the first snowfall, an important harbinger of Christmas in those days was the great paper caper. All the women were unanimous in the opinion that Christmas just could not be celebrated properly unless at least some of the rooms were freshly papered. There was no such thing as a living room then, or at least we didn’t call it that. Some folks called it the parlor, others the sitting room but by far the majority referred to it as the front room, often shortened to simply “the room”. Whatever it was called, that was one room that had to be papered. Housewives studied samples of patterns, made their decision and then trudged over to make their selection. When the South Side women had money to spend they didn’t say they were going shopping or going downtown or going on a buying spree. They just said they were going “over” and everyone understood. Although we had to cross the

Long

Bridge every time we went to church or to the movies or to visit north side friends we never said we were going over unless we planned to go shopping. And that little word still conjures up for me visions of shops with long counters and high stools to sit on when your feet hurt, grocery stores where you could pick out your own sweet biscuits from big wooden boxes and small ice cream parlors where the most delicious sodas in the world were made by tipping a bottle of Iron beer over a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

But to get back to the all-important Christmas papering. Well, when the selection was finally made, including an appropriate border, the work began. First the old paper had to be taken off (in some ambitious years the room was stripped “to the boards”) but before even that could be done all the pictures and ornaments had to be removed from the wall, and this was usually a job for the children. King William of Orange, on his never-ending trip across the

Boyne, was taken from his place of honor over the mantelpiece, all the mottoes were removed and the china ornaments were put carefully away where they wouldn’t be broken. When all the preparations had been made it was time to make the paste, for the wallpapers in those days didn’t have the conveniently sticky underside that they have today. The paste was made from flour and water, and how they got the lumps out of it was - and always will be - a mystery to me. Talk about papering the parlor! In our house you couldn’t see anyone for paste! But somehow, some time, the room was finally finished, and my elders’ loud sigh of relief indicated to me that Christmas could come as fast as it wanted to now.

All the other preparations were made that are common to most people everywhere when Christmas is approaching. Cakes were baked, puddings steamed, and during the war, parcels were packed for the boys overseas, for there seemed to be at least one missing from every home on the south side. When I was very young, in the early days of the war, I was angry at the Germans because we couldn’t have lemon syrup for Christmas any more. To this day I don’t understand why, but I remember hearing my aunt, an expert syrup maker, say sadly that since the war started you couldn’t get the proper ingredients. And the bought lemon syrup was a very poor substitute. The war’s been over for a long time now and I still haven’t tasted that unforgettable homemade lemon syrup. I wish someone would give me the recipe.

Of course, most of the men on the South Side were more concerned about a more bracing kind of liquid refreshment. Even those who were very sober and sedate all year generally managed to persuade themselves that a “little drop 0′ stuff for Christmas” was different. The women, who considered the taking of strong drink an indulgence for men only, could usually be persuaded to take a small glass of port wine at Christmas time and blueberry and rice wine, being homemade, didn’t really count, although some of it had an almighty kick to it. The children had to be content with ginger wine, which was wine in name only. Although it nearly burned the throats out of us we couldn’t imagine a Christmas without it.

Sometimes I wonder how many of our family worries and irritations really touch our children. Since I’ve grown older I’ve often heard my father speak of the time during the depression when his pitifully small salary was cut again. But, looking back, I can’t even remember which Christmas that was, so it couldn’t have been very different from any other so far as I was concerned. With the carefree selfishness of childhood, I suppose I didn’t notice that his coat was shabby that year or that my mother put a new collar on last year’s good dress instead of buying another one. I had my new frilled yellow organdy dress, though, and shiny black patent-leather shoes. I don’t think they wanted me to know how hard it was to find the money for them.

In the last few days before Christmas the grown-ups seemed to lose their minds, muttering under their breath that this year things would never be ready in time and shooing the children out of the way. By the day before Christmas Eve, with school, concerts and most of the big preparations behind us, the tension eased a little. We called it Christmas Eve Eve. Many turkeys and geese, traditional gifts of employers to employees, began to arrive on that day; most of them delivered in horse-drawn carts whose jingling bells announced their arrival. Cookies and fudge were made then, too, with mothers and aunts wearing out their brains trying to think of new places to hide them from ever-searching fingers. The men of the family were a little later than usual returning from work that night, but the women were much more understanding than they were at any other time of year.

When I try to sort out my feelings in that long-ago time, I think the strongest one in our house was: “If only everyone in the world could be as lucky as we are.”

I don’t remember if I ever heard this sentiment expressed in so many words, but it was there, as real as the Christmas tree, and it was shared by everyone who lived under our roof. We didn’t have very much, just a tall, narrow, rented house joined to a lot of other tall, narrow, rented houses but there was a spirit there that seemed to be especially prevalent at Christmas time. We were ordinary people, living in close proximity to a lot of other ordinary people, but somehow few of us ever felt ordinary. It’s beyond me to explain why.

Nowadays, we often complain that people don’t just drop in any more, but wait to be invited. Sometimes, fearful that I’ve been painting the past in too rosy a hue again, I ask myself if they ever did just “drop in.”

I can state firmly that on the South Side they certainly did, especially at Christmas time. Christmas Eve was the men’s night. Late in the afternoon the callers began to come, some of them arriving while we were in the middle of our pork-chop supper, without which no Christmas Eve would be complete. When this happened my mother and my aunt would look at each other with resignation, raising their eyebrows and lifting their shoulders. But it would not do to make the visitors unwelcome. They were ushered into the resplendently papered front room where newspapers were still spread carefully over the recently scrubbed floor. And there they would sit and talk and drink and sit some more.

One Christmas Eve in particular I remember there was one caller who didn’t seem to want to go home. My mother, anxious not to be inhospitable but impatient to get started on the tree trimming, asked him gently at one point: “Mr. H-, Mrs. H- will be wondering where you’ve got to.” I’ll never forget his rather bleary but unwavering eyes when he looked at her and said slowly: “You want me to go home, don’t you? But I’m not going.” Poor Mom, defeated for once, retired to the kitchen and that night it was later than usual before the tree decoration was complete.

When we finally crawled into bed it certainly wasn’t to sleep, for then the visiting began in earnest. Groups of men made their way from house to house, increasing in numbers and volume as they went along. One night, after I had finally dropped off to sleep, I was awakened by what seemed to me at that time the most beautiful singing in the world. I crept out to the stairs and looked over the banister to see a group of men in the hallway led by silver-haired Mr. Neddy Harvey, a gentleman if there ever was one. “0 Come all ye faithful” was their favorite carol and the roof almost fell off when they came to the line “0 come let us adore Him.” It left me with the feeling that they were really on their way to the stable to worship the Infant King.

Next they sang that loveliest of all carols. “Once in royal David’s city,” and then my grandfather started an old song about England’s valleys and hills in which the other men, most of whom like him had never seen England, joined lustily and tearfully. That was followed, naturally enough, by “Carry me back to dear old Blighty” and then somebody suggested “Eternal Father, strong to save”. Almost everyone there had a close relative in the Royal Navy. The women joined in then, their work forgotten, and there on the stairs by myself, I sang too, “Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee for those in peril on the sea.”

Who can describe Christmas Day?

I don’t think I’ll even try.

Christmas Eve is, and always has been, my own special time. During the week that followed the big day, visiting was begun in earnest; the women entering into full activity now that they could at last rest on their laurels. The time had come to sample the cakes of their friends, savoring the rich taste but nevertheless remaining convinced that their own were just a little better. We children kept a record of how many places we “had our Christmas” as we called it, and there was usually one day, shortly after Christmas, when we all felt a little squeamish. Then the thought of plummy cakes, rich shortbread cookies and lemon syrup would make us shudder. We were soon ready for another round, however. As one of my mother’s friends used to say: “It’s worth a bilious attack.”

Well, that was what the Christmases of long ago were like, my Christmases at least. When Christmas was what it used to be. But don’t you agree with me that today’s children, whose tired parents are even now embroiled in the household tasks that have replaced papering and putting down canvas, whose Christmas lists are far from complete and whose heads ache at the prospect of the baking that has to be done, don’t you agree that today’s children are as far removed from their parents’ problems as we were long ago? And that for those same children, who have to grow up just as we did and face a future as uncertain as it can possibly be, this very Christmas of 1969 might well prove to be that unforgettable one, when for just a few brief moments all was right with the world?

When I was a boy, Christmas was a time of great rejoicing and hilarity. It was kept up for twelve days, during which there was ball-playing, wrestling matches and games of various kinds. In every house was placed on the table a decanter of rum with a very large sweet cake, baked in a Dutch oven or a large iron bake-pot. Those who could afford it, in addition to rum, had also gin, brandy and wine placed on the table. All visitors were expected to help themselves.

Then there were the mummers - those who went around by day and those who went around by night. The day mummers - the men had white shirts over their clothes, trimmed with ribbons, with fanciful hats. Each man had a partner - a man dressed in women’s clothes. Into whatever house they entered they recited their lessons, ate and drank, had a dance, their own fiddler playing the tunes. The night mummers were dressed in the most grotesque manner: some with humpbacks, cow hides and horns projecting, with hobby-horses, small bags of flour, which they used to throw over their followers. Then there were the boy mummers, who went around day and night. On two Christmases I had John Bemister as a partner. He acted as the Duke of Wellington, and I personated Oliver Cromwell.  

The snow lay sparkling on the ground, and all around was gay,‘Twas a merry Xmas evening up in Placentia Bay. It seemed as if the world was there, the crowd it was so big, ‘Twas pay a buck and try your luck for Sandy MacGugin’s pig. An old time Xmas raffle, for a pig that was won by Cuff, Who bid good-bye, his time was nigh, he’s bust on pork and duff.

Sandy’s wife cleared up for the dance, with a smile so sweet and big, Well she might, for I know that night she cleaned up on the pig.

The fiddler he was in good trim, he played loose though he was tight, His music made the tomcods waltz, near Sandy’s stage that night, When the dancing began, girls all looked for a man, their toes in the floor they dig, For weeks they were sore, but they’re longing for more, Like the night that they raffled the pig.

The snowball king was in his glee, he banished care and strife, He was a bag of fleas that night, chock full of life. The ale king too was present, and sang with might and main

That thirsty song that make you long, happy days are here again.

Katie Renouf that night brought her snuff, often a pinch she would take, She tickled the crowd, cause her clothes were so loud, they’d keep everybody awake, Tom and his lassie were up from Trepassey, the pig they thought they’d take back, They were forty that night, and the pork was in sight, till Cuff put his five on their Jack.

Big Jim Kean from Harbor Main was there that night with his stock, She had a wart upon her nose, her face would stop a clock; One eye was glass, her leg was cork, on her head she had a wig; Alas poor Jim, we said to him, he should swop her for the pig.

Soon the Brown Mule done its duty, big Jim began the job, He tripped the blonde from Kettle Cove Pond, and broke MacGugin’s gob.

He took the door from off the hinges, and tried to dance a jig, But the floor came up and hit him, at the raffle for the pig.

MacGugin swore that he’d no more the snowball boys invite, Sure we wore out our welcome at MacGugin’s home that night. And though we may not go again, we’ll remember for many a day

The Xmas raffle for the pig up in Placentia Bay.

 Joseph was not the only one who had a wonderful visitor.

One morning, very early, Mary got up and went out to the garden. It was still dark. Flowers were wet with dew.

Mary bowed her head and made a prayer of thanks for the lovely morning. She was happy to be alive on such a beautiful day.  

Suddenly she heard a strange voice. 

“Hail, Mary!” said the voice.

The voice was deep and beautiful, like the sound of music. It was different from the voices Mary usually heard.

The girl looked up. There before her stood a glorious angel. He seemed to be made of the morning light. He held a shining sword in his hand. Yet his face was very kind.

‘You are Gabriel, the angel of the Lord,” said the young girl. She bowed to the visitor from Heaven.

The angel nodded his head.

“Mary,” he said, “you are a very fortunate woman. The Lord has chosen you for a great honor.”

She trembled and kept silent. The angel spoke gently.

“Do not be afraid, Mary. Before long you shall have a baby boy. He will grow into the greatest man who ever lived. You will name him Jesus. He will be the Savior of the world, and will be called ‘The Son of God.’ ”

Mary answered the angel in a low voice. “I am the servant of the Lord. I will praise Him for giving me this Holy Child.”

The angel disappeared. “Have I dreamed this?” the girl wondered. “Can this wonderful thing be true?”

Mary wished she could talk about the angel’s visit.

“I shall go over to the hill country and visit Cousin Elizabeth. I will tell her about the angel’s visit and his promise.”

Mary asked Joseph if he would take her over to visit her cousin Elizabeth. It was not safe for the young girl to travel alone.

Wild animals ran in the hills. Robbers hid in the shadows. Kind Joseph went with Mary to the town of Juda where Elizabeth lived.

“I must hurry home now, for I have work to do,” he said. “I will be after you when your visit is over.”

Cousin Elizabeth had been married for many years. She was rather old now. All this time she had wished and prayed that she and her husband might have a baby. Now her wish was going to come true.

Elizabeth saw her young cousin and came running to meet her. She was very happy, and she seemed young again. Her face and her voice were glad. “Hail, Mary!” she called. “You are blessed among all women. Your baby will be the blessed one.” Mary was surprised that she knew. “That is what the angel told me,” she said. “I came to tell you about it. How did you know about this wonderful secret?” “I cannot tell you how I knew,” answered

Elizabeth. “The words came to me when I saw you. It was as if an angel whispered them.” The two cousins had a happy visit. “Stay here with me until my baby IS born,”

Elizabeth begged her young cousin. , ‘You and I have wonderful things to talk about.”

Mary visited

Elizabeth for several weeks.

Then

Elizabeth’s baby was born. The baby was a little boy, and they named him John.

John was a strong, beautiful little baby.

Mary helped take care of him.

“Now I must go back to my home and Joseph,” she said one day. “He will be coming for me.”

Mary was happy as she went back home with Joseph.

“Some day I shall have a baby boy of my own!” she thought. “I shall love him very much!” She remembered the angel’s promise.

“He said my baby would be the most blessed child ever born,” she remembered. Her heart sang with happiness.

Joseph smiled at her. “The birds sing sweetly today,” he said. “The flowers seem sweeter and brighter than usual, too! I think they are glad to see you coming home!”

“I think they are glad about my baby, too,” thought Mary, happily.  

Many years ago a young man came from another town to make his home in the village of

Nazareth. The village was in a country called

Galilee. The man’s name was Joseph.

Joseph was very helpful to the people of

Galilee. He made wooden plow points with which they could plow their wheat fields. He carved wooden troughs which held water for the donkeys and the oxen. He made bowls for food and little barrels for milk and grape juice.

Joseph worked at a bench along the street. He watched the people as they walked by. Fishermen went past him on their way to the sea. Farmers walked by with their work animals. Children ran races and played games near his bench.

Many women and girls walked along the street, too. The town’s well was at the end of the street and the women went there after water.

Joseph noticed one young girl more than the others. Her name was Mary. She was a very beautiful girl.

“But her kindness and her gentle ways make her even more beautiful,” thought the carpenter.

Little goats and lambs came running as Mary walked along the street. Sometimes she patted their heads. Sometimes she gave one a bite of grass or a scrap of bread.

The birds were not afraid of Mary.

Doves flew about her head. Little singing birds chirped as she walked by.

The little children loved Mary, too. She was so pretty and kind and smiling. If a small boy stubbed his toe and fell down, she hurried to help him up.

If a little girl broke her doll, Mary took time to help mend the toy.  

“What a lovely maiden!” thought Joseph. “She will be a good wife and mother!”

Mary had noticed the carpenter, too. “He has a kind face and gentle manners,” she thought. “His work is careful. 

He is good to old people and beggars.”

One day Joseph came to see Mary’s mother, who was a widow. He told her that he would like to marry her daughter.

Mary’s mother was pleased.

“The young carpenter comes from a good and noble family,” she told Mary. “He is a relative of the great King David who lived long ago.”

Mary was happy. She was glad to know about the noble people in Joseph’s family.

“But Joseph is noble, too,” she said. “He is a kind, good man. I am glad he wishes to marry me!”

Before long there was a great party in the town. Mary’s mother and her relatives planned the party. It was the engagement party for Mary and Joseph. All of Mary’s relatives came. There was a feast. Most of the relatives were pleased with Joseph.

N at long after this a strange thing happened to Joseph. While he was asleep, an angel came to him.

“I am the angel of the Lord,” said the visitor. “You have done well to choose Mary for your wife.”

“Mary is a dear and gentle maiden,” answered the carpenter. “The Lord has been good to me.”

The angel said, “A greater thing will happen. Mary’s baby will be a son. He will grow into a holy king who will save the world. You will name him ‘Jesus Emmanuel’.”

“That name means ‘God is with us,’ ” said the carpenter. The angel nodded his head. Then he disappeared.

Joseph awakened and sat up. “A heavenly visitor has been here!” he thought. He knelt and made a prayer of thanks.

He thought of stories which he had heard all his life, and which had come down through the years.

“Long ago the Lord promised King David a great thing. He promised that a lovely maiden should have a baby boy. The maiden would be married to a man in David’s own family. And the baby would become the Savior of the world.”

Again Joseph bowed his head and made a prayer of thanks.

“I am only a poor carpenter,” he said to himself. “Mary is just a poor girl. Can it be that the Lord has chosen us to keep his wonderful promise?”

Once there was a young man named Kowashi, who lived with his old mother in a small Japanese village at the foot of the mountain. They were happy, respectable people and lived their lives in the simple, good way.

There was just one thing the young man used to wonder about. His mother used to be a gentle, sweet little woman. But when she got to be about eighty years old, he began to notice that she had long, sharp, pointed teeth. She used to eat her fish, tail, eyes, and all; she even seemed to enjoy crunching up the raw bones.

One night a fish peddler of Kowashi’s village was walking home through the mountain pass after . a day’s work at the market. He had not sold all his fish that day. And those left over were in the fish basket which he carried on a pole over his shoulder.

He was not afraid of night robbers, because it was a bright moonlit night and he could see every stick and stone in the path.

Suddenly he was set upon by a whole horde of cats. They smelled the fish in his basket and were determined to get it.

He fought them off with the long pole. And he fought so smartly that finally the cats gave up the fight. Then one of them said, “Go call Old Woman Kowashi.”

“That’s funny,” the peddler said to himself, for young Kowashi and his mother were his neighbors in the village.

So the man quickly climbed into a pine tree, wondering what would happen next.

In the moonlight the man could see the path and all the cats and their shadows as plain as day.

Soon one of the cats said, “Here she comes.” Another said, “Here comes Old Woman Kowashi.”

The man looked. And what he saw was a big tough old gray cat coming through the pass.

“He won’t give us the fish!” all the cats said together.

So the big gray cat climbed up into the fish peddler’s tree. The peddler was lying stretched out along a branch. The cat crawled out along the same branch until she came close to him - eye to eye!

Inch by inch she came nearer. Each of her sharp claws looked six inches long.

What could he do?

Suddenly he remembered that he had his fish gaff with him. (A fish gaff is a heavy barbed hook with a wooden handle, used for hauling heavy fish into a boat.)

Quickly he grabbed the fish gaff and gave the big gray cat a whack on the head.

Just about then the sun peeked over the horizon, It was morning, and all the cats vanished instantly. One minute they were there, and the next minute they were gone - just like that.

The fish peddler climbed down from the tree and hurried home. And that morning he went and told young Kowashi the whole story.

The young man listened and nodded his head.

He was thinking about how his mother had changed, and how her teeth had gotten so pointed. And just this morning he had noticed a deep gash on her head.

Now he asked her how she had cut herself, and she glared at him with baleful eyes and snarled, baring her long pointed teeth.

So young Kowashi suddenly understood: a cat witch had taken his mother’s place! Quickly he seized the witch, drew his long sword, and cut off her head at one stroke.

Then he looked down, and what lay at his feet was a bloody old gray cat.

Not long after this, Kowashi discovered that the wicked cat witch had killed his real mother and buried her in the garden.