12th Day of Christmas

Today Astrid Gibbs shares images of Christmas. Astrid has lived in Germany and Ottawa. In 1997, she retired in the village of Baie-Sainte-Anne, NB, where she has just completed her fifth book: a history of her native village. Astrid's contribution will conclude Bread 'n Molasses magazine's annual 12 Days of Christmas event. We hope you enjoyed all the stories and poems. Thanks to everyone who sent in contributions! And thank you for reading. We'd love to hear what you thought of this year's line-up, you can send your feedback to editor@breadnmolasses.com or leave comments at the end of any of the articles. Enjoy!

Images of Christmas Time

Sleigh bells spreading joy through the country-side
boys and girls happily sliding down a hilltop
stately pine trees newly garlanded in immaculate snow
teenagers having their first hockey game on a frozen pond
Mommy and Daddy lugging bagfuls of unwrapped gifts.

In Grandma’s kitchen
aromas of fruitcake tourtières and shortbread whose wonderful
odours fill the house for hours on end
while a Christmas carol heartens the soul
and Grandpa keeps busy stoking the fire.

In the living-room
The smell of a freshly cut pine pleasuring the senses
Christmas cards running prettily down the staircase
an empty manger patiently waiting …
while a candlelight keeps vigil by the window.

Finally
Chrismas Eve!
On Grandpa and Grandma’s doorstep
children and grandchildren all dressed up in smiles…
While
all over the world
PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL TO ALL
hums in the heart of people...

—Astrid Gibbs, Baie-Sainte-Anne NB

11th Day of Christmas

Our 12 Days of Christmas special event ends soon. Today Phyllis Jardine, who now lives in the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia, shares more memories from her military family's experience serving in the Middle East during the holiday season in the 1970s. You'll recall that we first heard from Phyllis on our 5th Day of Christmas when she wrote about Christmas in the Holy Land. Today's story was previously published in CARP in 1997 where it won a prize. Happy reading and don't forget that you can leave comments in the comment section!

Gift Wrapped in Dreams: Our VW Van
By Phyllis Jardine

Christmas gifts in our home usually meant the traditional toys, books, and games. Practical as we were there was always the element of surprise. But December's gift back in 1971 far surpassed any gift we'd ever given or received. It became our legacy of love—a gift of cherished memories.

We were living in Damascus, Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. My husband, a Canadian Naval Officer, had been appointed to the United Nations as a United Nations Military Observer (UNMO).

Mountains with snow-capped peaks loomed before us as our family of five packed into a UN Wagoneer and drove the 127 kilometres through several military checkpoints along the narrow roads of the Bakka Valley, and over the mountains to Beirut.

Treasures from around the world were bartered, bought and sold in the cosmopolitan Mediterranean city of Beirut, often called the Paris of the Middle East. We arrived at noon on a Friday, dropped the UN vehicle off at headquarters, and took a taxi to the Volkswagen Dealership. To our dismay, the manager refused to accept our cheque.

"But I gave you a cheque as a deposit when you ordered the camper," my husband said. "You accepted it a few weeks ago, with no problem."

"Aha, but we didn't have to give you anything, did we?"

All the banks were closed because of the holy day. Disappointment prevailed. We couldn't believe what was happening. We then visited Ousteyan, the money-changer on the street corner who had been referred to us by his cousin, Gareth, a goldsmith friend of ours in Damascus.

"Why you worry?" he said. "I help."

In his kiosk, about the size of a telephone booth, Ousteyan passed out treats to the children, cashed our cheque, and handed over 11,000 Lebanese Pounds in a brown paper bag.

"Shukran, thank you," we chimed.

"Afwan, welcome," smiled Ousteyan

When my husband plunked the money down on the dealer's desk he must have thought we'd robbed a bank. The children laughed as we climbed into our new camper with its pop-up roof, table, fridge, and fold-down beds. We then headed home to Damascus.

Thirty-five kilometres outside Beirut, the weather changed. Snow and high winds blocked the roads and we were forced to turn around. All the hotels were filled. “No Vacancy” signs everywhere. But our spirits weren't dampened. The owner of the Charles Hotel, where we'd stayed many times previously, provided us with a large suite. We later learned his mother had vacated her apartment to accommodate us.

The next morning the weather cleared, but the pass remained closed. The police advised us to go south, down and around the mountains. A bus and two Syrian taxis were taking the same route, so we joined their convoy. This journey took us on a treacherous, winding road through the village of Marj Uyan, deep into Fedayeen territory.

As headlights shone over the steep cliffs and deep ravines below, I feared for our lives and prayed many prayers. And as I watched our three little ones—so full of softness and ease—sleeping in the backseat, I thought of our family back home in Canada and silently asked what they would do under such circumstances. “How would you dispel these terrible fears, dear loved ones?”

"Mar haba, keef halek," echoed the voices of three keffiyeh clad men who plowed through the snow to say hello to us and to check on our children. Framed by the camper's windows, their wrinkled faces looked kind, and deeply familiar. They appeared concerned, especially for the safety of our children. I found myself relaxing a bit, gradually breathing slower and easier. I looked over at my husband and at that moment I think we both experienced a sense of peacefulness within the shared space of our camper. In our young lives, so many years ago, my husband and I discovered a rare truth, a sense of hope that continues to nurture us to this day. Sweet joy sometimes treads out of the darkest night, bringing strength to the most frightening part of our lives. All we had to do was let it inside.

Exhausted, we reached Damascus in 12 hours, a trip that normally took two. With the simple joy of being safe, and alive, we inhaled the city's sweetness and carried our three little ones up the flight of 75 steps to our apartment.

Our camper provided comfort, security, and shelter wherever we ventured after that day. We left the Middle East in 1972 and spent two months travelling through Turkey, Yugoslavia, Europe, and England. The camper's closeness helped us grow and learn from one another. Its versatility gave us the gift of precious moments to take home to Canada: cooking octopus beside the Aegean Sea, walking the cobblestone streets of Dubrovnik, camping in the mountains of Switzerland, climbing towers in London, and sailing home on the SS France.

In 1980 we all shed tears when we sold the camper. The hammock bed over the front seats was a foot too short for our 11 year old son. And the double bed we had installed in Germany to fit into the pop-up roof was much too small for two teenage girls. Our old faithful guardian angel on wheels that came gift-wrapped in dreams so many Christmases ago had served us well.

10th Day of Christmas

Thanks so much for all of your kind emails letting us know how much you're enjoying Bread 'n Molasses Magazine's annual 12 Days of Christmas event. Today we present a very touching story from Myrna Beth Lambert. This is Myrna's second contribution to this year's Christmas line-up. You'll remember her from the Third Day of Christmas with a story called Poppy's Christmas Present. Have a mighty good day!

Mission for Santa’s Orphans
By Myrna Beth Lambert

Terry, age six, always wanted a family. His mother dropped him off at the door of a small orphanage in Birmingham, England, when he was one-month-old. A short note pinned to his diaper said, “I am young and have no money. Please take care of my baby whose name is Terry.”

Terry was treated well at the orphanage, but he was always lonely. His two friends, Elson and Rio, were his family. Elson was a year older than Terry and ever the pessimist. “We’ll live here until we are old enough to go out on our own and then you and I and Rio will live together. No one wants to adopt us Terry because we are too old. Don’t you know everyone wants a baby?”

Terry felt his loneliness mostly during Christmas. A few of the children who stayed at the orphanage on a part-time basis went home for the holidays.

The small orphanage was poorly funded and there was never enough money. When Christmas arrived the children usually had their usual dinner of fish and rice. Pumpkin pie with a scoop of ice cream was a Christmas treat.

Santa Claus never came to the orphanage. Miss Penny, the headmistress, depended on the generosity of the local community to give the children a small gift. They usually donated gently worn articles of clothing such as t-shirts, gloves and socks. The gifts were distributed by a local resident after Christmas morning Mass.

The children were allowed to watch TV for one hour each evening if they had finished their homework. One evening as Terry sat alone in the TV room he saw a commercial that said, “Write a letter to Santa, your wish may come true.”

Terry crept into Miss Penny’s office and borrowed a piece of stationary and an envelope. When the other children in the dormitory were asleep he crawled to the door of the room. Lying flat on the floor he wrote his letter by the reflection of the light that streamed in under the door.

“Dear Santa, you don’t know me because I don’t think you come to orphanages. I am six years old and I really need a mom and dad. Could you please leave me a picture of my new family and tell me when they will come for me. That’s all I want. I am a very good boy and I would cause no trouble.”

The next morning he waited for the postman and asked him if he could mail the letter. The postman noticed the unstamped letter was addressed to Santa. There was no address. That night when the postman, whose name was Forrest, arrived home his curiosity got the best of him. He opened the letter.

He was so touched by this small child’s request he immediately showed it to his wife Margo. The couple who were in their forties had always wanted a child but were never blessed.

“What do you think? Are we too old to raise a child?" asked Forrest. “He’s the cutest little kid, small and a bit on the skinny side with round eyes the colour of coal. Those little eyes are filled with sadness.”

Margo read the letter several times. “Talk to the headmistress,” she said.

The next day Forrest went to see Miss Penny. He showed her Terry’s letter and expressed his interest in possibly adopting the young lad.

She explained that there was a lot of paperwork involved and the law stated they had to meet certain requirements. This couldn’t possibly be done by Christmas.

Since Christmas day was on a Thursday Forrest asked if he would be allowed to bring Terry home for the weekend. This would be a test of whether they would all be compatible and whether Terry would like living with him and his wife.

Miss Penny called Forrest that evening. She said that after inquiring into his background the staff agreed that he could take Terry home for the weekend if Terry wanted to go.

“Can you please give Terry an envelope from Santa in reply to his request for a picture?" asked Forrest.

“I can’t do that,” she replied. “There are 25 children here and they would all wonder why only one child received something from Santa.”

“Don’t worry,” said Forrest. “I will see to it that each child receives a present. I will personally dress as Santa and hand out gifts.”

The mistress was excited. No one had ever done anything like this for the kids before. She immediately gave him the ages of the children.

Forrest hung up the phone and wondered how he could raise enough money to fulfill his promise.

That night when Forrest returned to the post office he called a meeting of his fellow workers and told them of the orphanage's plight. Although money was scarce for most of the workers they all contributed to the collection. The postmen called their group Mission for Santa’s Orphans.

Forrest gave Margo the money and she purchased a small toy for each of the children. This would be the first toy most of the children had ever received. She wrapped each gift with care and placed the presents in a large pillowcase.

Christmas morning Santa arrived at noon. The children gathered around him in awe of his suit and the big bundle he carried.

Forrest distributed small trucks and dolls. The older children received games and books. Their laughter brought joy to his heart.

When he gave Terry his gift Terry quickly tore open the paper. He was the only child not smiling. His gift was a baseball mitt. Terry thanked Santa and walked to a corner of the room where he sat on the floor forlorn.

Santa walked over to Terry and said, “Wouldn’t you like to put your hand inside the glove?”

As Forrest walked to the door he wished everyone a Merry Christmas. He glanced at Terry and noticed that he had placed his hand in the glove. Terry was sitting on the floor staring at a picture of Forrest and Margo.

Yes, thought Forrest, this was going to be the best Christmas ever.

The Mission for Santa’s Orphans began 20 years ago and is still in existence, run by Forrest, Margo and Terry.

9th Day of Christmas

Happy New Year! Today Valerie Poulin shares her personal experience with charitable giving during the holidays. A frequent contributor to Bread 'n Molasses magazine, Valerie is a published book author and an internationally published poet. She writes magazine features, news, profiles, and general-interest articles. Enjoy!

Giving in the Spirit of Christmas
By Valerie Poulin

Giving in the spirit of Christmas, honouring personal heroes, paying if forward—it doesn't matter what you call it, the important thing is action.

In past years, after writing cheques of small, seemingly inconsequential amounts, to my favourite charities, I felt guilty and somewhat lame for not having donated more. What I decided would work was to stop sending little bits of money to five or more charities, I decided to focus on only three charities, on a rotating basis so that six charities received money every other year.

What I learned this season is that $25 or $50 can make a difference. But there were other lessons found in the phrase “the spirit of giving.”

This year, thanks to my mother and late grandmother, not only was I inspired to do something bigger and better, I was also allowed to play Santa. I was able to purchase almost $500 worth of gifts to donate to a local women’s shelter.

(As I mentioned to a friend, I had a hard time convincing myself that Grandma would have wanted me to spend 500 bucks on a Wii for my 12-year-old.)

While I don’t want to give undue credit, I can’t overlook the coincidence, or perhaps more accurately, the synchronistic airing of The Oprah Winfrey Show’s “Paying It Forward” episode followed by CNN’s Heroes. Watching these shows, I was reminded of a workshop I'd attended a year ago with parole officers and social workers from across Canada, to learn about the therapeutic writing work of regional writer Sue Reynolds for incarcerated women, but I hadn’t taken what I’d learned beyond the planning stage. What’s more, I’d also been recently introduced to the work of a Toronto-based, hands-on charity that allowed donators to give gifts requested by needy children. Reminders were everywhere, things were adding up. I wanted to do more.

Days later a cheque arrived from my mother. She’d evenly divided her portion of Grandma’s tiny estate to her four daughters and sent out cheques in time for Christmas shopping.

I knew, almost instantly, what I would do with the gift.

It much wasn’t much of a leap of imagination. The money was meant to be passed along.

Here was the sign I’d been waiting on. My grandmother, who spent many of her 104 ½ years volunteering for church groups, contributing hand-made crafts to local fundraisers, and knitting hats and mittens for the homeless, was allowing me, through my mother’s actions, to make a gesture that I’d always wanted to make. I was able to give big.

I called a local shelter to find out what they needed beyond the list on their website. How many kids were staying at the shelter and of what ages? With a substantial employee discount for a retail store, I could spend the $500 and get about $650 worth of merchandise. It wasn’t long into the conversation before I realized how out of touch I am with the reality of these women’s lives.

In my zeal to make a difference, to buy special gifts for the residents and their families, I overlooked the obvious. These are women in need. They are women who have left abusive familial situations.

Cosmetics and fragrances were on my list. Is makeup needed? I asked. Mascara? Eyeliner? Lipstick? “Yes,” the volunteer co-ordinate said, then paused. “And concealer … sometimes there’s bruising.”

The difference between my desire to help and the harsh truth of their lives was wholly evident.

Not only did the gravity of this reality stop me in my tracks, but I realized that I was being selfish. I’d approached this gift-giving experience as my contribution, of me, helping. The focus and attention was meant to be on the women and their families.

After all, this wasn’t about changing lives—the staff at the shelter do that. The women themselves take steps to change their lives. My gesture was a simpler one. Adding brand new, store-bought items to the season’s donations of gently-used clothing and second-hand toys, the gifts were meant as a reminder for the women of their worth, of the special place they hold in their world, and to demonstrate some humanity to the children, to show them that the world can be gentle and kind and caring, something they may not have yet experienced in their young lives.

Although the gesture itself was big for me personally, it didn’t have to be. It’s the fulfillment that’s immense, not the size of the contribution. This year, I gave to an organization I cared deeply about, rather than spreading it across many charities. And that made a world of difference to me.

In organizing the dozen or so bags of loot, I thought about the joy Grandma must have experienced when knitting those hats and mitts, knowing that she was helping someone, even in a small way.

It must have been similar to the joy I was experiencing.

And recognizing that I would not have been able to experience that joy, to make the donation without my late grandmother’s gift, I offered the contribution to the shelter in her memory. I think she would have liked that.

8th Day of Christmas

Today we have a lyrical poem that was handwritten and mailed to us by regular post from Norma Mountain in Gray Rapids, NB. Hopefully no errors occurred when the poem was typed. We're sure many readers will recall similar experiences of the season when they were growing up. Happy New Year's Eve! Enjoy!

Christmas Back Home

In a little place called Barnettville
beside the Miramichi
That is where our family gathered
around the Christmas tree.
When kinfolk of all ages
who far from home did roam
All found themselves beside the stove
back where we all called HOME.

With the fire burning brightly
and some "toddy" on the sly
And Mama stuffing turkey
and onions in our eyes
All hands talking all at once
there was so much to say
And so much to get caught up on
while we were all away.

And as the evening went along
more friends kept dropping in
With shaking hands and Merry Christmas
How's she goin'? How have you been?
And Dad would play the mouth organ
Some good old-fashioned reels
Sometimes he'd dance a step or two
and we'd all kick up our heels.

Just then the old train would blow
we called "The Late Express"
Then Dad would light the lantern
and go to meet the rest.
When the last one had returned
we'd all sit down to lunch
Mama had cooked for days on end
to feed this hungry bunch.

Some would pick at the raw dressing
it tasted pretty good
Others would stoke up the stove
with a block or two of wood.
The little ones would be in bed
with the stockings in a row
But mostly didn't go to sleep
'til they heard the last "Ho! Ho!"

Before we hardly knew it
Christmas morning came
with all the oohs and ahs and ohs
and how do you play this game?
We awoke to bacon frying
there's nothing quite so good.
And toast made over the open fire
of a stove that's burning wood.

There was just time to get ready
before the church bell began to ring
We sometimes barely made it
Coming in with a prayer and a wing
And when we hear the Carols
and bowed our head in prayer
we could almost feel the presence
of a little Christ Child there.

Yes, someone had made Christmas very special
And the choir began to sing
Unto us a child is born
Unto us is born a king.
So let us all take time this year
amidst all the Christmas fun
to set aside a little time
to thank Him when it's done.

That's how it was at Christmas
for this family back home
Our hearts still hold fond memories
no matter where we roam
of love and joy and peace and rest
of happy days of yore
We cannot have those days again
the Old Homestead is no more.

-- Norma Mountain, Gray Rapids NB