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

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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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

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

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

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?

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,

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.

 

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.

Mary visited

Then

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

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?”

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.

Indeed, this is a very powerful statement describing a very personal moment of enlightenment and union with the divine. Isis promised rebirth and salvation to those who believed. During the Isia, on a special day called the “Finding of Osiris,” worshipers reenacted the myth of Isis and Osiris, sharing the grief and the joy of Isis searching for the body of Osiris and finally finding it and embalming it. They shouted in unison, “Heurekamen, synchairomen,” “We have found! We rejoice together!” It is also said that in one rite during the Isia worshipers gathered in a darkened room and mourned over a prone statue of Osiris. During the ritual, a light was carried into the room; a priest then anointed the throats of the mourners with oil and whispered, “Take heart, 0 Initiates, for the god is saved, and we shall have salvation”.

Hope and salvation from all of our troubles and suffering, overcoming our fear of death, and living a blessed life on earth are promises that resonate in all religions throughout the ages. These words of
Isis can find meaning for each of us especially during the dark and doubt-filled days of October, when the end of the year and darkness looms in the path ahead.

Modern Ritual of Promise and Hope: The Ship of
Isis

In antiquity, a yearly ritual to Isis was carried out on a beach or near water. A model ship was prepared. It was painted with sacred words and text, bearing a special message for the year’s prosperous journey. Worshipers gathered around the boat, first purifying it with flame, egg, and sulfur and chanting solemn prayers. They then piled it with small gifts, winnowing fans, perfumes, and incense and threw libations of milk mixed with grain into the water. The small ship was set adrift and allowed to sail away on its own, following its own course. Thus, the rite ended.

• Adapt this rite, adding your own very personal prayers and messages.
• Give a small offering to the goddess. remembering that she does not ask for riches or wealth, but commitment. In return she offers faith, hope, and love.
• Set your ship adrift upon the water to be guided by the goddess.

The Promise of
Isis

Behold. I come to you in your time of trouble. I come with solace and aid. Put an end to your crying and tears, send your sorrows away. Soon through my benevolence will the sun of salvation rise up. Listen to what I say with great care.

You will live a blessed life. You will have a glorious life under my care and guidance. When you have traveled your full length of time and go down unto death, there also. I will be beside you. You will see me shining on amidst the darkness.

Through your religious devotion and constant faith, you may learn that I have it within my power to prolong your life beyond the limits set to it by Fate. Through me, you may be reborn.

Long, long ago when I was a young boy who lived in

Old men lounging on the Mill

Some morning in December when we youngsters were feeling the first vague stirrings of Christmas excitement, we would awaken under our mountain of soft multi-colored homemade quilts to find the bedroom window delicately laced with frost.

“It’s started!”

This to my younger brother with whom I slept heads and tails. We bounded from bed, oblivious of the cold that had penetrated every cranny of the gabled upstairs while we slept, and placing our mouths close to the ice-powdered window, assaulted it with strong puffs of hot breath until tiny peepholes appeared. Then with one eye squinting through the opening we beheld the swirling snow.

“It’s going to be a big one!” I said. My brother exhaled against the glass.

“Perhaps we’ll get a half-holiday,” he said hopefully.

Time off from school was the first demonstrable benefit of an old-time snowstorm. But first, since there was no radio to report that schools were closed, we had to make it to the school in order to be told that it was all right to return home.

So began the complicated preparations before lunging out like Arctic explorers into the drifting whiteness.

First, the huddling around the kitchen stove while the splits crackled, the coal was added gradually, and the rolled oats, soaked overnight, were moved to the front damper. Gradually the heat pushed back the all pervading chill and the pleasant breakfast smells added to our sense of comfort and security.

Surely every mother born shares the same lexicon of admonishing phrases.

“Eat up.”

“You need a good breakfast to keep you warm.” “Wrap yourselves up well.”

“Wear your mittens.”

“Don’t forget your rubbers.”

How could anyone forget those rubbers! Great rolled red soles, heavy black tops with tongues that reached up over the laces of our heavy boots.

And then, another motherly quotation. “Use your hands to put them on.” A silly suggestion, since after much practice, a sharp forward thrust of the foot, coupled with the right pressure on the heel and the rubber slipped into place with the absolute minimum of physical effort.

And the neckties!

Why undo them every night when they had to be tied up again in the morning? So make the opening just big enough to slip over the head and tighten the knot. An eminently sensible arrangement, even though after a time the knot tended to disappear under the collar tab.

For trousers we wore heavy melt on cloth breeches. They were standard dress for almost every boy in those days. Laced just below the knee, leather patches between the legs and flared on each side. They made us look like an untidy bunch of Bengal Lancers especially when the wool knee socks, an integral part of the outfit, slipped down around the ankles as they almost invariably did. Add a V-necked sweater, a rumpled jacket (loosely referred to as a blazer), cover with a windbreaker and we were ready for the real ordeal.

If mothers share common phrases, they also have a common faith in safety pins.

“Let me pin your mittens to your coat so you won’t lose them.” “Wrap your scarf up around your nose and mouth. Now, pin it in place. I don’t want you to catch cold.”

Always the same ritual and always the same aftermath. A dozen steps from the door and out came the pins. How else could a fellow throw snowballs? And wouldn’t you look a real sissy walking along with only your eyes showing through a narrow slit between your scarf and the salt-and-pepper cap, complete with ear flaps?

Oh, those salt-and-pepper caps. Rough black and white material on the outside and a red silk lining.

The manufacturers and mothers believed the dignified way to wear such distinctive headdress was flat on the head like a dinner plate with not the slightest tilt to either left or right.

We boys felt differently, however. The best sartorial authorities among us dictated that the cap must be worn at a debonair, rakish angle with as much of the material as possible pulled toward the right ear, and the peak of the cap, designed so meticulously to be an almost straight-across visor, was unacceptable until it had been skillfully manipulated to drop visibly on both sides.

“If you keep that up you’ll break the peak,” Mother warned. And she was invariably right - but so much the better. Now the cap fitted snugly and stylishly to the head and when a group of us gathered under the street light to play Hoist Your Sails, we looked like a pack of Irish revolutionaries plotting to blow up London

But now, on the morning of the first snow, we accepted among all the other instructions the maternal order, “Straighten your cap,” and then stepped boldly into the swirling whiteness, feeling for the entire world like our

And

A silent, snow-laden city. But there was an exception. Bells.

To this day I would probably confound any psychiatrist seeking to give me a word-association test.

“What word do you think of when I mention ‘Christmas’?” he would ask.

“Bells,” I would answer.

“What word does ’snow’ bring to mind?” Again, “Bells.”

“Walking to school?”

“Bells.”

“Horses?”

“Bells.”

Always it is bells that keep ringing in my memory and if those winters of over 45 years ago have triggered a perpetual echo, it is of bells.

Mostly, I think, it is sleigh bells. The silvery, rapid tinkle from the sleek horses of the wealthy, prancing past, hauling magnificent sleighs, and the occupants bundled under their great fur robes, like so many teddy bears traveling in style to their winter hibernation.

Then there was the dun metallic clunk of the work-horse bells, tolling only occasionally as the poor beasts, their flanks steaming from the exertion, labored up Palks Hill or Leslie Street or Alexander Street, dragging a quarter of coal or a puncheon of molasses or a load of birch billets to what were both topographically and socially the Higher Levels of old St. John’s.

And there were other bells also. Bells on our coasters on which we slid belly buster down those same hills. Bells on the inside of bull’s-eye shop doors to alert the store owner in the back room that someone outside was ready to buy. (Sometimes, just for fun, we simply opened the door, shook it a few times to make the bell rattle, and we ran.)

And we mustn’t forget the cow bells. “Cow bells in

You could not run a raffle without a cow bell. And old

It was the charitable aspects of these organizations that gave even rock-ribbed Protestants a warm glow of satisfaction as they eagerly indulged in the heavy business of gambling they would denounce vigorously under any other circumstances.

But the competition to help one’s fellow man was intense among the many raffles. The parcel-laden passersby had to be persuaded to aid your particular philanthropy, and hence the cow bells.

Outside each raffle stood a bull-voiced huckster vigorously shaking a cow bell and hollering at the top of his lungs, “Three for five and seven for ten! The women can try as well as the men!

Yet, the effect was exhilarating, for there was within it all a kind of simple harmony, a truce between the old town and the winter that they would make every effort to live with each other and as far as possible enjoy each other’s company.

This brings me back to the first snowfall.

Once out into the drifts, some already reaching to the knees, the first task was to get rid of the safety pins. Out they came from the mittens and the scarf, the salt-and-pepper cap was properly adjusted and down you plopped into the engulfing snow, rolling in it as if you were severely afflicted and the snow had magic, health-giving properties.

And perhaps it did.

The blood surged, the breath came faster and became more visible in the cold, crisp air, the cheeks reddened, the nose ran and was wiped deftly and often on the backs of the homespun mittens.

“Let’s find the boys,” I said, for this kind of adventure brought out the herd instinct and we made for the usual rendezvous outside Mrs. Reddy’s store.

Inside my now soggy mitten was one of those tiny

Banner caramels! Hard as iron, chocolate covered, only a cent each, and if consumed properly, guaranteed to last at least an hour before finally melting in your mouth.

Now, forces having been joined and the recess money spent prematurely, off we crept single file along the unclean sidewalk, frequently pushing each other into the drifts or simply plunging in voluntarily with unrestrained enthusiasm.

“You think we’re going to get a half-holiday?” The question was whipped along the wind. “If we don’t I’ll pip off.” Shouts of approval all along the line. When there was a snowstorm it was considered an inalienable right to be let out of school early. It was not very logical for we simply stayed out in the snow anyway, but a right it was and one not to be surrendered lightly.

Up

we went single file like the gold-hungry prospectors in our history book making their way over the mountains into the

“Get yourself good and wet,” cried one veteran of these anti-school campaigns. “Then they’ll have to send us home.”

The advice was superfluous for by now knee socks hung limply around our ankles and the legs of our long drawers were wet and soggy as if we had waded through a surging torrent. Whether it was our bedraggled appearances or the fact that the teachers also welcomed the day off so near Christmas (as we often suspected), we all gathered in assembly, the principal mumbled a short prayer, we sang something about all things being bright and beautiful, and were told we could go home.

I have often thought that God is secretly on the side of school boys for we had barely begun the trek back along the tortuous route we had come when the snow stopped, the winds died and the watery winter sun did its best to make up for lost time.

“Let’s go to Water Street,” I said, and there was a chorus of approval. Now it was down over Springdale Street, chasing after horses and sleighs, leaping on the runners until irritated drivers scared us off with a gentle flick of their whip. Where the snow had become hard and slippery on the steeper inclines, we slithered up and down until we had a surface as smooth as glass. Then we slid down it one foot ahead of the other with all the grace of an Alpine skier braving the upper reaches of the

Tiring at last of our sport we moved on, leaving the slippery patch to trap some unsuspecting pedestrian, unless, as often happened, a nearby resident ended the slope’s usefulness by covering it with ashes from the kitchen stove.

Oh, there was so much to see on Water Street during those long-ago Christmases. In fact, the great thoroughfare, great to us at least, excited all the senses.

I have spoken of the sounds, the bells and the clamor. And then there were the smells, the exotic smells in the fruit and candy stores, the pungent smell of leather, oakum and tar in the hardware stores, and in the general stores an indescribable mixture of the aromas of dry goods, groceries, and the ever-present whiff of salt cod that penetrated even the most high-class emporiums, seeping in from the adjacent harbor wharves where all manner of vessels called enticingly to the wanderlust in every boy who has ever lived with the sea at his doorstep.

But of all the senses it was sight that made Water Street the wonderland of the Christmas childhood. Intricate old-world lettering over the shops proclaiming proudly the names of the owners. More names in gold on the windows and doors. The sides of old store buildings converted to primitive billboards - importers and exporters said one, general dealer another; harness maker, ironmonger, cakes and pastries, all proclaimed their trade or lines of business, and the totality of the impressions told the school boy better than any lesson of the great mercantile history of this oldest street in all of North America.

“What do you want for Christmas?” we asked each other as we traversed this magic place. And it was a mark of the times that it was always asked and answered in the singular.

“What do you want?” really meant “What one thing above all others are you hoping for?” So the choice was excruciatingly difficult and minds were changed at each shop window.

The Champion steel-runnered coaster at Knowling’s gave way to the Chum Boys Annual at Dicks and the book in turn lost out to the newly introduced tube skates at Martin-Royal Stores.

Down one side and up the other we went, detouring at Beck’s Cove to see the men at work shoeing horses in the forge on George Street. Are blacksmiths always kind to children? Any I have known were. Always they let us enter the forge to enjoy the heat and sometimes to pump the bellows, to watch the iron turn red hot and be hammered into shape and to marvel as the horses stood on three legs as the hoof was trimmed and the sharp new shoes skillfully applied.

And now that I think of it, almost everyone in St. John’s was kind in those faraway days. We wandered unhindered in and out of stores. People were never too hurried to ignore our questions and a “Merry Christmas, Mister!” always drew the cheery response, “The same to you, son!”

Back home, after the day-long reconnaissance, came the moment of truth. Subtly, parents had to be advised about what that one important present ought to be. What Santa put in the stocking was separate, of course. An apple, an orange, hard candy, a small mechanical toy or two, and the inevitable mittens.

But even the most devout believer in Santa Claus knew that hints regarding the big gift had to be passed to parents as insurance, if nothing else. And as a rule, the insurance paid off.

And then the year came and it came early for me, when I realized that my world had changed, and that hints would not any longer be enough.

Suddenly one Christmas, my father was no longer there. At 13, I was an orphan, the eldest of six.

Was it my imagination or was the wind colder now, the snow less inviting and the bells muted? Why was I more cautious in response to the question “What do you want for Christmas?” I guess I knew - all of us knew - that things had changed.

So we could not pay the man to bring a Christmas tree as we used to. Very well, I could cut one myself, on the South Side Hill and drag it home on my sled.

Mother made fudge to replace the store-bought candy. I took some of mine, wrapped the pieces in used tinsel, and gave them back to her in an old chocolate box.

We made fancy lanterns out of wrapping paper colored with crayon and a star out of the cardboard of a shoe box, covered with the silver wrapping from a candy bar.