My grandparents' home on Pleasant Street (now an Irving gas station). It was right beside the liquor store & we loved to watch the cars go in and out from the kitchen window.

Miramichi Memories
by Mary Mondoux

My mom and I often took the train to visit her parents Lee and Inez Buckley in Newcastle, NB. We would take the Rapido from Toronto to Montreal and make the run for the connection to the train to her home town. Most times the seats on our trains converted into berths. Within about an hour of leaving Montreal the porter on the train would do the conversion into the berth and up we would climb into our bed for the night. That swaying back and forth and clickety clack of the train was a great sleep inducer.

I remember the porters always being very nice to us. And I recall looking out the windows as we travelled through New Brunswick the many hours. Many homes alongside the tracks were unique. My most memorable sight was the fact that most of these houses, shacks really, didn’t have glass windows—only tarp or some such thing. I wondered how they got through winter. Also, in looking back—how much of this memory is an exaggeration of my recall.

Our base was always my grandparents’ huge home. Nana and Pop always made certain they had my favourite foods on hand, Franco American Macaroni, Lipton’s Chicken Noodle soup and bread & butter pickle sandwiches.

I would spend almost my whole summer in this small town. My dad wrote almost weekly with little snatches of everyday life in Willowdale, things an eight or nine year old would love to hear. I still have some of this correspondence.

My Pop, myself, three of my Newcastle cousins and Mom at Wilson's Point, 1960.

As I said, Newcastle was a small town and times were so different in the 50’s, or so it seems. Every day I would wake up in my big bed in the front bedroom of my grandparents’ home, run downstairs to a big breakfast—I seem to think it was often hot oatmeal. Then out the door I would go, running up the street and up the hill across town to my play with my cousins Angie, Alan, Cindy and Kevin, plus all the neighbourhood kids.

We roamed the town, up and down, around and around. Newcastle is on the Miramichi River and ocean going cargo ships were often docked not too far from the downtown square. Can you imagine, five to 10 young kids, the eldest maybe being eight or nine years of age and the youngest probably only three or four, climbing aboard these vessels and exploring, chatting with the crew, etc? There was even one fellow, whom we thought quite old with his grey beard and grey hair; we called him Santa. They gave us treats and stories. Nothing more, nothing ever happened. Can you imagine this today?

As it got later in the day and dinnertime approached, I would make my way back downtown to my grandparents’ home to have dinner with them. The evenings would be spent playing the piano, playing cards or watching one of the two channels they had on TV.

Old smokestake (all that remains) from my ancestors lumber mill (Buckley family).

Some of the nicest things about these trips were being close to my mom, my Nana and Pop meeting us at the train station upon our arrival, my many uncles and how they spoiled me, the freedom of roaming with my cousins in the town, and the sweet joy of coming home and running into my father’s arms when we got back to Toronto.

We did this trip many times and once I did it on my own at age 14 during an Easter break. What bravado, taking the train to Montreal on my own then transferring to the train to Newcastle! It’s a good thing I had done it many times with my mom; it was almost like I could do it in my sleep. I don’t know how she let me do it. I cannot imagine myself having let my sons do something like that at that young age. Times have changed.

This past summer my mother and I took a journey down to her home town. While there my Uncle Paul took me on a drive through the town. It’s interesting how many memories came flooding back.

We drove past my great uncle’s old home and I could remember visiting him as a child and sitting in his library on his big old brown leather chair. Then we went past the old library, that was no more, and amazingly I could still smell that old place, really could smell it. Down to the city square … I could visualize my cousins and I running around with ice cream cones and hoping that Uncle Paul would take us to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. When we drove past the spot where my grandparent’s home had once been I swear I saw an image of our old cat Marmalade. I can only imagine what memories my mother was resurrecting.

While there my mother and I took a trip to Burnt Church to visit with her cousins and my cousin Sandy whom I hadn’t seen in at least 30 years. An afternoon of drinking wine, looking out over the bay, was one of the highlights of our trip; it was a crazy day no doubt. I even found out somehow we have some royalty in our family—well royalty that was born on “the wrong side of the blanket”, something about Mary Queen of Scots and the Duke of Murray. My cousin said she had once had some of the old coins from some type of support regarding this dalliance, but she sold them when she moved to Ireland. Will we ever know the truth?

We flew back home to Toronto on the hottest day of the summer, glad to be back, but with a trunk full of memories.

Mary Mondoux

Mary Mondoux was born in Toronto in 1951 and spent most of her summers as a young child and youth at her grandparents’ home (Lee & Inez Buckley) in Newcastle, New Brunswick. She spent many days with her cousins Angie, Alan, Cindy and Kevin Walsh, and their neighbours (one of whom was the writer, David Adams Richards). Mary still has family there including Jack, Robert and Paul Buckley and their families, Nan and Tom Creaghan, and Sandy Bunting, whom she had the pleasure of visiting during the summer of 2011. She currently lives in Toronto and is married with two sons, aged 22 and 24.

This post was submitted by Mary Mondoux.

Veronica (played by Sarah Manderville) performs a solo of "Silent Night" at the Mountain School Christmas program.

My Mountain School Christmas
by Kellie Underhill

This year my Christmas festivities started early in December when my mother, Pauline, sister, Sherry, and I went to the Kin Centre around the square in Newcastle, Miramichi to attend a special dinner theatre performance.

A local theatre troupe, The Heritage Players, were staging their latest production called “A Mountain School Christmas.” The play was written by my aunt, Valerie Stewart, and it was about celebrating Christmas in 1960 at the one-room schoolhouse in Grey Rapids, NB that my mother and many of her siblings attended when they were children.

We sat at a table with other family members—my aunts, Noreen and Vida; my uncle, Hayward; and my cousin, Lorelei with her husband, Brian. Looking around the room I saw many familiar faces, more aunts and uncles, several cousins and their children, as well as other people from “up home” in the Blackville area.

On a snowy night like that one most people don’t like to drive too far if they don’t have to, but this was a very special occasion. Before the show began when my aunt Valerie, who also directed the production, asked the audience how many of them had attended the Mountain School, hands shot up all over the room. They were part of this history. They had been there, lived it. And I’m sure that’s part of the reason why so many people ventured the 20-30 minute drive into town in less than perfect travel conditions.

Rehearsal for the Christmas program at the Mountain School.

As the performance began and the characters started to be introduced, my mother tried to remember if this or that had ever really happened or speculated who the characters might be based upon in real life. She remarked about different aspects of the set that she recalled had been in the original schoolroom. For her this seemed to add an extra level of enjoyment; she noticed little details that the average viewer would probably overlook and they filled her with a happy nostalgia.

But you didn’t need to go to the Mountain School, or indeed any of the other one-room schoolhouses that used to dot our little province, in order to enjoy the play. I laughed so hard at times that tears rolled down my cheeks. At one point I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stop laughing and I’d have to excuse myself to regain my composure. And even though the larger consolidated school was the only school I ever knew personally, I was also moved to nostalgia. Times were much simpler even in the late 70′s and 80′s when I was a young student. I could relate to rehearsing for a school Christmas program and hoping your mother might attend.

An angry parent (played by Dorinda Glover) confronts the teacher, Miss Brown (played by Christina Donovan).

I won’t divulge any more details about the plot on the chance that you might get to see it one day. There currently are no plans that I know of to put it on again, but I hope they will. It deserves to be seen by a greater audience. It’s an important part of our heritage. And I know so many people who were unable to see the sold out show would enjoy it tremendously.

So why put in all the time and energy required to mount a successful dinner theatre for a one night only performance? As entertaining and tasty as the play and turkey dinner were, the reason for the whole production in the first place was the most important part of the evening for me. The event was a fundraiser for the Nelson Doyle Dancers.

The Nelson Doyle Dancers have been performing Irish dance on the Miramichi for 21 years. The group is a large one, consisting of girls and boys from age five to adult. Under the instruction of Ellen (Doyle) MacDonald, students do not pay a fee for their lessons but they are dedicated, practising sometimes many times each week.

A couple of the Nelson Doyle Dancers mid-air.

The group has been invited to Monaghan, Miramichi’s twin city in Ireland, to perform at several festivals there. For a Canadian group to be invited to Ireland to perform Irish dance is both a tremendous honour and also a testament to their incredible talent. But the cost of such a trip for a large group is considerable, so the dinner theatre was one of many fundraisers they will undertake in order to make the trip possible in August. I hope they’re able to raise the money. It’s such a wonderful opportunity for them to showcase their skills on an international scale. Should you come across any of their other fundraising endeavours, please show them your support. It is needed and well deserving.

To top off an already perfect evening some of the Nelson Doyle Dancers took the stage and showed us why the former mayor of Monaghan, Willie McKenna, extended the invitation in the first place. If you’ve never seen the group in action before, I urge you to seize your next available opportunity to do so. Words can’t begin to describe their talent or the feeling it evokes in the audience.

Nelson Doyle Dancers

There’s something about the beating drums and singing fiddles as dozens of feet furiously pound the stage before taking graceful flight in simultaneous leaps, spins and kicks that seems to call to the very core of my being. I can’t dance with them. I don’t know the steps and am probably too clumsy to execute them even if I did, but watching the performance I felt the Irish dance deep down in my soul. The experience took my breath and this time when tears sprang to my eyes it was because I was overcome with emotion. I sat there thinking, “This is my people, my dance. This is my heritage.” And this wasn’t the first time I’ve seen the Nelson Doyle Dancers. I’ve been to other performances before, and each time I have this indescribable experience of being “home”.

Maybe if half your blood isn’t Irish as mine is, maybe if your family’s roots don’t stretch as far back into the earth of the Miramichi as its first settlers like mine does … maybe then the experience would be less … magical … but I hope not. I think everyone must feel the powerful connection to art of the dance, if not to the heritage itself.

Overall, Christmas 2011 had its high points for me, but they were few and far between. Personally, I had one of those particularly challenging holiday seasons that I’m quite happy to finally be through with and on to other things. But way back on December 2nd, back at the Kin Centre surrounded by family, friends and neighbours, laughing until my sides hurt at a play that took me back to simpler times, enjoying my first taste of turkey for the year, feeling my heart swell with pride as it kept beat with the Celtic drums and followed the flying feet of the dancers onstage … back then the Christmas season had just begun and it held all the promise of being as gloriously wonderful as that first night. That is a memory I will cherish for years to come and think of fondly during future holiday seasons to immediately transport me back “home” and into the Christmas spirit.

Kellie Underhill is the Editor of Bread ‘n Molasses magazine. Her non-fiction and fiction writing have been published in newspapers and magazines across Atlantic Canada, as well as in Ireland.

Leave a comment on this post and you’ll be entered to win a signed copy of Miramichi author, Doug Underhill’s latest book entitled Salmon Country. We’ll draw one winner from everyone who comments on any of our special holiday themed posts for our annual Twelve Days of Christmas event!

My Mr. Claus

As I search through my boxes to gather up Christmas ornaments, I slip back in time. I find myself thinking about the many sacrifices my parents, like many parents, make for their children during this ever so meaningful time of year.

Over the years, Santa has become the human face of Christmas; pictures are seen of him everywhere in his long white beard, red coat and carrying his big bag of toys for all good boys and girls.

It is easy to picture the human face of Christmas, the holly jolly red-cheeked man; because he is the man who we all have come to know as Santa. The image of Santa reminds me yet of another man. He is not bearing a white beard nor wearing red. I picture my Mr. Claus. He is your everyday average man who strived during his entire life to make Christmas a memorable occasion for his family. For all of his married years, I am sure he would attest to his angel-like figure, close to his side, hovering over a hot stove preparing meat pies, wrapping presents, home decorating; making all magical and exciting for his family to enjoy.

The lady by his side hoped for more than presents. She wanted somehow to return to a time in her own childhood, when life was simpler and made more sense. Back into time; before the troubles of adult life arrived at her door.

Behind all the fun and decorations, she somehow tried to bring a message of something more to her family. Some key to life, hope or happiness for all, while bearing the worries of getting it all done and thinking how and who was going to pay for it all.

Being a single mother of three children, I feel the lead up to Christmas to be somewhat over whelming. With the ending of November, every spare minute is spent thinking or preparing for that one single day. Some days, I have to look hard and search long to find God in what we have come to call Christmas. My, how so much has changed.

When I was a child, every Christmas Eve my sisters and brother were far too excited to sleep. We were so blessed because my Mr. Claus would arrive at our home early in the evening to sing Christmas carols. While he sang, we kids would whisper amongst ourselves saying, “I hope I get a new pair skates”, while the other would want a new doll. Now kids want a new laptop, a flat screen TV, high priced video games or some other highly expensive toy.

My kids are no different. And I, like most parents, try to give more and more, again and again, in hope that my children will one day come to understand the love and meaning behind giving.

Gift giving was introduced because of the gift God gave to us; his son.

Christmas cards and pictures make Christmas seem so breathtaking and beautiful. In truth, Christmas must not have been what is painted and depicted today.

Should we consider the real setting of Christmas, we would picture a cold and damp journey filled will trials and tribulations encountered by Mary and Joseph along their way to Bethlehem.

The story of Jesus’ birth tells us that he came as a poor and humbled person and not a strong and rich king.

My Mr. Claus sat on his piano stool for hours singing Christmas Carols; often telling the story of his father who loved the song, Silent Night. His father told him that this song reminded him of his own father. He said, “His father missed his own father during the celebration of Christmas.”

My Mr. Claus’ eyes often filled with tears when he sang Silent Night. He did not have to tell me why. I knew he too now missed his father; the man who put meaning into his life.

The legend of Poinsettia; a Children’s Christmas story from Mexico reveals to us that the gift of love is dearer to Jesus than the most expensive present. As the years add on, I understand it is the loss of parental love that my Mr. Claus still longed for.

At 47 years of age, I am realizing that I have become very much like the lady who stood beside my Mr. Claus. I easily picture her face gracefully watching as I gobbled up delicious meat pies. She just smiled as I rushed to be first at her beautifully set table to dig into her perfectly basted turkey. She giggled when witnessing that I was the quickest of all four children to unwrap my every wish under her tree. The tree she took time to decorate every single year.

Her emotional bond to Christmas was fully satisfied knowing she didn’t change the world. She was happy knowing she in some way, gave all that she had, in hope that her children would someday come to know the true meaning of Christmas. For her that was enough.

Christmas means different things to different people. However, hope is the thread that ties a family together on Christmas Day.

Tonight, I find myself thinking about my Mr. Claus and the special lady who stood by his side and by their children’s side. Making perhaps, Christmas a never-ending story; allowing every year for her children to add another chapter to the day we all came to know as “Christmas.” I believe my Mr. Claus and the lady by his side hoped that their children, too, would come to cherish and to share one day, the meaning of Christmas with their own children.

On December 25th, we can choose to remember the birth of Christ. We can follow the teaching of Jesus by reaching out to others and, by his example, love one another. We can offer what help we can to the poor. We can bring meaning to this holiday by being the people we should be and could be, if only we choose to be. We could live out this day, every day of the year, sharing the examples of how Jesus hoped that we would choose to live our lives.

We can remember not to let time slip us by. Before you know it, we will already have sat down to eat turkey with all the trimmings and up to this point, we haven’t spent any quality time thinking of the true meaning of Christmas; bringing for many, love and hope.

My Mr. Claus is my dad. He has been my Santa for 47 years; never changing as years add on. My guardian angel is alive. She is my mother. In me, she instilled the true meaning of Christmas that I hope to share.

As years add on, I realize that I am very much like her. I too want to go back in time. I want to go back to before adulthood arrived at my door. I want to go back into time; when things were just a bit different.

Kim Drisdelle

Kim Drisdelle works with Enterprise Miramichi in Miramichi, NB, where she lives. She is an active member of the community, and for a number of years chaired the White Gold Festival and Miramichi Canada Celebration. Kim completed four years of undergraduate studies at Universite de Moncton in education speciale, as well as two years of undergraduate studies in French Literature and Linguistics at St. Thomas University in Fredericton. The single mother of three children, this is Kim’s first contribution to Bread ‘n Molasses Magazine’s annual Twelve Days of Christmas event.

Leave a comment on this post and you’ll be entered to win a signed copy of Miramichi author, Doug Underhill’s latest book entitled Salmon Country. We’ll draw one winner from everyone who comments on any of our special holiday themed posts for our annual Twelve Days of Christmas event!

Children at their desks in the Mountain School.

When my mother was a girl she would walk up the road every weekday morning with her siblings and friends to the old Mountain School, a traditional one-room schoolhouse in Gray Rapids on the Miramichi River in New Brunswick. I’ve grown up listening to stories of how children of all ages and grades learned their lessons from a single teacher in one not so very large room, before they were finally sent by bus to the new consolidated school in Blackville. Times were very different back then from when I was growing up and attending the same Blackville School starting in the late 1970′s until I graduated in 1987.

I’ve always wondered what it might have been like to have gone to a little one-room schoolhouse and now, thanks to my aunt and Mom’s sister Valerie Stewart, I need not wonder any longer. Valerie has written a play called “A Mountain School Christmas” which the Heritage Players will perform in a dinner theatre next Friday evening, December 2nd, at the Miramichi Kin Centre in Newcastle as a fundraiser for the Nelson Doyle Dancers to help them raise money for a trip to Ireland.

One teacher, played by Christina Donovan, undertakes the teaching of the entire schoolhouse.

Recently I had the opportunity to attend a dress rehearsal of the upcoming performance and based on how much I laughed and enjoyed the few scenes I got to see I’m now very much looking forward to enjoying a traditional turkey dinner with dessert while I get to take a trip back in the past and immerse myself in the full one-room schoolhouse experience during the production next week. Plus the Nelson Doyle Dancers will be on hand to perform as well, which is always a special treat I enjoy and look forward to ever since I first saw these talented girls at an Irish Festival several years ago.

This is going to be a must see event on the river, so grab your tickets if you haven’t already! For more information the official press release follows below.

Dinner Theatre in Miramichi to Raise Funds for Trip to Ireland

What will happen when one overbearing mother, played by Dorinda Glover, visits the tiny schoolhouse?

The Nelson Doyle Dancers and the Heritage Players have joined forces to present a dinner theatre, “A Mountain School Christmas”, on Friday, December 2, 2011 at the Miramichi Kin Centre starting at 6pm. The evening will include a traditional turkey dinner with dessert, the premiere of the Heritage Players latest production and a performance by the Nelson Doyle Dancers. Tickets cost $25 and are available at Books Inn, Renous Convenience, the Blackville Post Office, by calling Hollie at 627-0181 or Valerie at 843-2849.

At the 2011 Miramichi Irish Festival, the Nelson Doyle Dancers were invited to Ireland by former Mayor of Monaghan, Willie McKenna. The group is slated to leave on August 7, 2012 for a ten day trip which will include performing at various venues and events in and around Monaghan. “The dinner theatre is one of many fundraisers that we are having as we have to cover the cost of our trip. We are very pleased by the support we have received thus far and thank everyone for their generosity,” says Hollie Sturgeon, one of the event organizers.

The Heritage Players cast of children star in "A Mountain School Christmas".

“A Mountain School Christmas” is the latest work from Heritage Players’ playwright, Valerie Stewart. When approached by The Nelson Doyle Dancers to write a play, Stewart did not hesitate since her granddaughter, Nora Sturgeon, belongs to the group. “My other play “Grammy Grace” had been well received so I volunteered to write the play, and to direct it as well, a new experience for me,” says Stewart. “The play is set in a one-room school in 1960. It takes place in Gray Rapids, but it could be in any of the one-room schools any where in rural N.B. during the late 50s or early 60s. Unlike Grammy Grace which was mostly true, this play is entirely fictional. Some of my former schoolmates may see themselves in the characters but this is coincidental. I am certain everyone will enjoy the play because there are funny parts, sad parts and lots of singing and audience involvement.” Besides Stewart as the director, the cast includes Emily McCabe, Noah Donovan, Nicole Nash, Nick Hallihan, Sarah Manderville, Laura Sturgeon, Christina Donovan, Dorinda Glover, Jeff Wilson, Bernie Colepaugh and Tammy Manderville.

Both Sturgeon and Stewart encourage everyone to purchase their tickets early as they anticipate a sold out show. “The Nelson Doyle Dancers are wonderful ambassadors for the Miramichi. It is a great honor for the dancers to be asked to go to Ireland and we all should be proud of them,” says Stewart.

Hockey Dreams premieres March 17th at The Fredericton Playhouse and runs until March 20th. It will also be presented at Saint John’s Imperial Theatre on March 24th and at Moncton’s Capitol Theatre March 25th.

Hockey Dreams is a world premiere event written by David Adams Richards and adapted with and directed by Caleb Marshall. This stage adaptation of Richards’ memoir follows little Stafford Foley and his quest to be in the NHL, have his own rink, or even just play at all. Some of his friends will make the “all-stars” while others, like Michael, have to abandon childhood; through it all, they still cling to the dream. Hockey Dreams is a coming of age story that will speak to Canadians of all ages.

Regardless of where you see the play, you might just recognize some of Hockey Dreams’ “all-stars.” Marshall searched the province to make Hockey Dreams a “truly New Brunswick project. I am very pleased with the exceptionally talented local cast we have assembled.”

Shawn Wright (Hometown: Saint John, NB) Hockey Dreams stars Shawn Wright as David, an adult reliving his youth on the Miramichi rinks in the 1960s. Wright is a veteran theatre actor, having done extensive work at both the Stratford and Shaw Festivals. He most recently played a starring role in Jersey Boys, and has several TV and film credits to his name.

Jacob Grant LeBlanc (Hometown: Fredericton, NB) Fredericton locals might just recognize this 10 year old, who is taking on the challenging role of Stafford, a delicate boy who struggles with health issues and his love of the game. Jacob brings his hockey skills to the table as the captain of the Fredericton DQ Stars, and has honed his acting skills with TNB Theatre School and Christmas @theplayhouse.

Alessandro Costantini (Hometown: Sudbury, ON) Alessandro is an 18 year old with a lifelong love of acting and hockey. He plays Michael in Hockey Dreams, a tough and lively boy who gives much of himself to ensure his grandmother and brother are cared for. Alessandro has done extensive theatre, television, and film work across Canada and played a principal role in the Sticks and Stones hockey film shot in Fredericton. TNB is thrilled to invite him back to New Brunswick for this world premiere production.

Robbie Lynn (Hometown: Fredericton, NB) Another Fredericton native, Robbie is no stranger to TNB Theatre School, playing roles in both Alice in Wonderland and Guys and Dolls. This 15 year old attends Fredericton High School and has played hockey since the age of 5. In Hockey Dreams, Robbie will play Lorrie, the local bully who steals Stafford’s puck.

Marley Kingston (Hometown: Bay du Vin, NB) Marley has the distinction of being the only female to appear on stage during the Hockey Dreams production. In an instance of life imitating art, Marley grew up in the Miramichi region, just like the characters in Hockey Dreams. She has also grown up “playing hockey with the boys,” much like Ginette, the fiery and kind girl she will portray in the production. Marley has a wide variety of acting and dance experience and is a student at James M. Hill High School in Miramichi.

Nicholas Lindsay (Hometown: Saint John, NB) Nicholas is a 14 year old, ninth grade student at Saint John High School. He has plenty of stage experience in drama clubs and with the InterAction Children’s Theatre. Nicholas takes on the role of Stafford’s “all-star” brother Darren.

Charles Gillespie (Hometown: Dieppe, NB) Hailing from the Moncton region, Charles is a five year veteran of the Capitol Theatre School. This 12 year old will tackle the character of Garth, a funny and sly boy who is Stafford’s sneaky nemesis. Charles is a student at Carrefour de l’Acadie, a middle school in Dieppe.

Darius Buddington (Hometown: Toronto, ON) Darius has packed a great deal of acting experience into his short 10 years, and TNB is thrilled to invite him to the stages of New Brunswick. He has had roles in several films, television series, commercials, and print advertising, including Da Kink in My Hair and Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. He is also an avid hockey player who will take on the role of Tobias, Michael’s half brother, who is a poor boy growing up on the Miramichi.

Peter Ball (Hometown: Fredericton, NB) Peter is no stranger to TNB, and we are thrilled to welcome him to the stage for the world premiere of Hockey Dreams. Peter is a member of TNB Theatre School, and also starred in a television commercial for the 2010 Main Stage production of Treasure Island. Peter will play several parts in Hockey Dreams, and also has the unique challenge of understudying Jacob for the role of Stafford Foley. Peter is an 11 year old student at George Street Middle School in Fredericton.

Hockey Dreams is already being lauded by playwright Norm Foster as “funny and touching. Real Canadiana.” Actor/comedian Marshall Button notes that Hockey Dreams offers “a cast of unforgettable characters [that] transport you to a time of innocence, hard times, and unrequited dreams.” Renowned artist Herménégilde Chiasson notes that “this play is about hockey but also about soul… we need more stories like this one to get a sense of who we are.” Indeed, Hockey Dreams will offer something for everyone: a homegrown coming of age story mixed with the nostalgia of our national game, all brought together for the stage. It is a story for every Canadian young and old, and will evoke vivid memories of what it meant to grow up in New Brunswick in the 1960s and, ultimately, what it meant to be small with big dreams.

For more information visit TNB’s website www.tnb.nb.ca

Yes Kellie, There is a Santa Claus!

I still get butterflies in my stomach when I remember how Christmas felt as a child. The sliding door with its frosted windows would always be closed on Christmas morning, blocking the living room from our view. It was understood that nobody would open the door until everyone was awake and ready to enter together. If you were the first to get up waking your sisters was frowned upon, and although never tested we believed might result in some terrible punishment that would ruin Christmas for everyone.

There is nothing quite like the anticipation of lying in the delicious silence of a dark Christmas morning not knowing if Santa has come or if you might yet hear the jingle of sleigh bells or the trotting of reindeer hoofs upon the roof. The seconds seem to stretch into eternity as your ears strain seeking any sign that others are stirring. One of my sisters would eventually wake and we would climb into bed together commiserating about the agony of the wait, hoping our whispers would be loud enough to rouse our other sister.

When all of us were awake we would go into our parents room to see if they wanted to get up and come see what Santa brought us. Sometimes they asked us to wait for them, leading to more tortuous minutes spent sitting in the kitchen eyeing the closed door and wondering what treasures lay beyond it, while my father put on a fire to warm the bare feet and legs beneath our flannel nightgowns.

But sometimes they would tell us to go ahead on our own, and we would race down the hallway babbling with excitement until we screeched to a stop in front of the big door. Then a breathless moment as we looked at each other making sure we were all together before we burst into the room and scattered in delightful squeals to the separate areas where Santa had left our gifts.

The next half hour our house turned into a whirlwind of little girls running round the room showing our toys to each other as we discovered them, then down the hall to show Mom and Dad, and back out to the living room to find something new.

Christmas morning was the most exciting and joyful time for all of us, despite me being an inquisitive child who always searched for clues that would either prove or disprove Santa’s existence. In the weeks leading up to the big day I would sneak into closets as I sought out the gifts that would magically appear under the tree on Christmas morning.

One year I found a bottle of bubble bath; another some Little Orphan Annie necklaces. Both times I was caught and punished for snooping. I’m not sure what ever became of the bubble bath, but I never saw that purple bottle with the Mickey Mouse top again. The necklaces did show up under the tree, but they were wrapped with a tag signed, “Love, Mom & Dad.” Santa’s gifts were never wrapped and they were usually larger than a necklace. Santa brought doll houses, race tracks, and Barbie Motor Homes. In all the years I searched our home for presents from Santa, I never found any.

We spent Christmas Eves writing letters to Santa and preparing his snack of homemade cookies, doughnuts or a slice of pie. I remember leaving him a fresh pot of King Cole tea on the stove and how excited I was in the morning to find the dregs in the bottom of his cup were muddied with a splash of milk. My parents took their tea black. Neither one of them liked the taste of milk. This could only be scientific evidence of Santa’s existence.

As I grew into a teenager our family tradition of the closed door hiding Santa’s loot until we were all ready to enter continued. My sisters were still children and by this time I also had a baby brother. The only thing that changed was me. I no longer snooped for gifts. I could still feel the butterflies on Christmas morning and if Santa wasn’t real, I didn’t want to know about it. As much as I wanted to grow up and gain my independence from my family, Christmas was the one thing I desperately wanted to stay the same.

But as I grew into a young woman, change became inevitable. Years passed and my family’s Christmas traditions continued to evolve as one by one we moved out of my parents home. Every year I returned to spend Christmas with my family but nothing was the same. The days of butterfly filled stomachs and Santa Claus were gone. I was the one who hadn’t gotten married and hadn’t had children. So while my sisters could continue our family traditions and begin new ones in their own homes, I mourned the loss of my childhood and innocence as I struggled to find my place.

Of course I wasn’t alone. My parents no longer had a house full of excited children on Christmas morning. They no longer had to extend the table and add chairs in order to accommodate everyone for dinner.

The first couple of years were hard. We tried to keep the old traditions alive but they just didn’t work anymore. Finally my mother said we needed to start making new traditions to keep up with our evolving family. We decided we would celebrate at my parents house primarily on Christmas Eve. We would have lots of great food, special drinks and desserts, open all our presents, and do all of the things that we would normally do on Christmas morning. It took a couple of years to get used to the change, but now we all look forward to these gatherings as a major highlight of our annual celebrations.

I get so excited thinking about spending Christmas Eve with my family. I love coming up with special recipes to serve that night, developing games or treasure hunts for everyone to play, watching the children open their gifts, and the excitement in their faces when they give their presents to Grammie, Granddad and Aunt Kellie.

This Christmas will be the second one I’ve spent with my new husband. Unfortunately, it will also be the second holiday I’ll celebrate without the rest of my family because of my husband’s hectic work schedule. Though this makes me sad I’m so thankful that my family was able to find new traditions that made Christmas as special for the adult me as it was when I was a child. I treasure the memory of the last Christmas I spent with my family as much as the ones from when I was a little girl. Even though I might not be able to participate every year from now on I know in my heart that there will be many more fabulous Underhill family holidays in the future and I look forward to them.

The anticipation of this family event is like being a little girl again on Christmas morning. And I realize now that the magic and butterflies of Santa Claus was never in the gifts he brought us, but in the togetherness I shared with my sisters and brother standing before that closed door.

Kellie Underhill is the Editor of Bread ‘n Molasses magazine.

A Sailor’s gift

It was Christmas day 1983. My husband and I were at Children’s Hospital with a sick child. She had been hospitalized for three weeks while the doctors did several tests as they tried to diagnose her illness.

The children on her floor were all seriously ill and I often sat until late in the evening in the Parents’ room conversing with other mothers.

Many families had come from other countries to this particular hospital because the doctors specialized in unusual diseases. Because many mothers couldn’t speak English we communicated with hand gestures. If the parent was Spanish I used my high school Spanish skills to converse and somehow we were able to communicate expressing our fears and hopes as we tried to comfort each other.

My husband and I were one of the lucky parents because we had been told that our daughter’s illness was not life threatening. We still had to remain in the hospital for several more days and our daughter was very concerned that Santa wouldn’t know where she was.

Christmas in a hospital can be very depressing for families, especially if they have other children at home. The hospital staff try to bring cheer along with their pills and needles but it just doesn’t work.

Christmas morning as we sat quietly in our daughter’s room we suddenly heard laughter and music coming from the hallway. I peeked out the partially closed door and couldn’t believe my eyes. A group of sailors were marching through the hospital corridors singing Christmas carols while dragging huge white bags filled with toys.

The hospital lit up as though the sun had popped in to warm the hearts of the sick. The children whose faces had been filled with fear and pain suddenly had a twinkle in their eyes and a smile on their faces. The miraculous change in the small patients touched our hearts.

The sailors visited each room and handed a gift and a white, naval cap to each child. They stayed and played games with the children who were well enough to play. The sailors sang to those who could barely sit up and they helped open each child’s present.

These compassionate men had come from a nearby naval base. The young men were Santas dressed in white, men who had volunteered to spend their Christmas bringing a bit of joy to small children.

I was choked with emotion and wanted to hug each and every one of these goodhearted young men. Their goodwill gesture epitomized the true meaning of Christmas.

Life is made up of many memories and this is a memory that shall always stay with me.

Myrna Beth (Micki) Lambert, award-winning author, is the mother of three grown daughters and nine grandchildren. She had been married to her husband, Stan, for 48 years. Micki writes poetry and short stories and has had several poems and stories published. Her writing has received many awards including the Tom Howard Short Story Contest and Voice Net Poetry Contest. She has had several Christmas stories published in Bread ‘n Molasses. Myrna divides her time between homes in Chicago and Florida.

Five Pairs Of Woollen Socks

Sheila grinned at Max’s struggle with the stitches required to turn the heel on the woollen socks he was knitting for his daughters. No matter how many times she showed him how to do it, he always managed to get stuck in the same spot. Any minute now he’d drop his knitting to his lap in frustration, and she’d have to show him how to do it again.

Max enjoyed knitting and although his stitching wasn’t perfect, Sheila made a point of praising his work, so he didn’t lose interest in his project. His plan was to knit five pairs of woollen socks complete with tassels for his five grown daughters for Christmas. Sheila knew the socks would be priceless to their daughters simply because they’d been knit by the father they adored. She was knitting matching mittens for the girls, but she’d been knitting the much appreciated mittens for years. It was the first time their father had knit anything.

Sheila and Max spent their evenings in the small living room, with the television on low, their knitting bags beside them. All through the summer and fall of 1997, they spent countless hours knitting, talking, and generally enjoying each other’s company. After a lifetime together raising their children and struggling to make ends meet, they were retired now and content with their quiet life. Their pensions were modest, but they’d decided long ago they didn’t need much to get by. They were best friends who’d always been in love and money had never been a priority in life. Max would be 70 years old on December13th, and they’d be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary next April.

“I just can’t do this,” Max’s frustration was clearly evident in the tone of his voice. Placing her knitting aside, Sheila smiled at him, “Pass it to me, my love, and I’ll show you how to do it.”

“How about I’ll make us a cup of tea,” he said passing her the soft pale green woollen sock he was working on. He knew that by the time he got back from the kitchen with their tea she’d have the heel turned and he’d be able to finish the rest of the sock.

Sheila knew him so well. “I’ll knit on it until you get back then. You don’t mind if I turn the heel for you?” She said trying to keep a straight face, she’d turned the heels on the other four pairs; there was nothing different about this pair.

By the time Max got back with their tea, she was just finishing the last stitches on the heel of the warm woollen sock. “You know, the girls are going to love their socks. They’ll be so proud of you when they find out you knit them all by yourself.”  She could see by his obvious pride he’d missed the slight sarcasm in her remark.

It was only the second week in November and he was nearly finished the last pair of socks for his girls. Quite a feat, since he’d only learned how to knit in July! He couldn’t wait to see their faces when they opened their presents on Christmas morning. They’d be so pleased that he’d learned how to knit, even more since his first knitting project was for them.

On the 29th day of November, Max finished the last tassel. His girls’ Christmas presents were finished at last!  It was a Saturday evening and he and Sheila always attended Mass at seven o’clock. While he was getting ready for church, Max complained of a sudden terrible headache. Believing maybe his eyes might be strained from all the knitting over the past few months, Sheila made a mental note to make an appointment with their optometrist next week. “I’ll get you some aspirin for your headache. Do you think we should still go to Mass?” Max enjoyed Saturday evening Mass, and he wasn’t about to let this headache change their plans. Swallowing the aspirin with a glass of water, “I’ll be fine once these kick in.” And putting on their heavy Mary Maxim home-knit sweaters they headed off to church.

The next morning while they sat in the living room after breakfast enjoying their tea, Max suddenly turned to Sheila, a very strange look on his face. He tried to call her name, but only a mumble escaped his lips before he slumped forward. When she called his name there was no response and in a panic she knew he was in trouble. Rushing to his side, she leaned him back against the sofa. Completely unresponsive, he stared at her without really seeing. She grabbed the telephone and dialled her nearest daughter’s number, “Judy you have to come over here quick. There’s something wrong with Dad. I’m going to call Lisa too. Please come as fast as you can. I think he might need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll be right there Mom, you just hold on okay.” Judy recognized the panic in her mother’s voice and realized something serious must be wrong. Her first thought was her dad might have had a heart attack, but he was only 69 years old and in great shape. A man who’d always loved nature, he walked miles every day for exercise.

Judy, Lisa and her husband Al arrived at the same time. “We’d better get him to the hospital,” Lisa said as soon as they walked in. Al practically carried Max to the car where they strapped him into the backseat with Sheila beside him and raced to the hospital. At the hospital Judy called the other three sisters and told them they should come as soon as they could. Nancy, Donna and Maggie wasted no time in getting there, but the doctors still didn’t know what was wrong with their father.

By early afternoon the resident neurosurgeon determined their father had a series of strokes. Throughout the rest of the day, he had several more until he eventually remained unconscious and in critical condition.

It took two weeks for Max to finally succumb to the bleeds on his brain that eventually took his life. He turned 70 years old on the 13th of December and passed away on the 14th. He’d always said to his family that the good Lord gave everyone three score and 10 years, and nearly right to the day it proved true for him.

Thoughts of the joyous Christmas season fast approaching were far from the minds of the sad family. Their father had been the glue that held them together, and the pain of losing him was unbearable. When that Christmas morning came and the girls gathered around their mother in loving support, she handed them each a small package wrapped in festive paper addressed in their father’s handwriting. Opening their packages, sadness and joy overwhelmed them at their special gifts.  “I showed him how to knit in July and he wanted to knit each of you a pair of socks. He was so proud of what he accomplished.” A sob caught in her throat at the sudden sharp sense of loss, but she silently thanked God for her children who never left her side over the past few weeks.

Love, pride, and a strong sense their father was still with them brought smiles to their faces as the girls tried on their woollen socks.  Even with the slight imperfections, they were the most beautiful Christmas gifts they’d ever received.

I still have the socks my father knit for me 13 years ago. The heels began to wear over time so I wrapped them in tissue paper and put them away. I still take them out at Christmastime every year just to hold them and feel the love my father knit into every stitch. Warm memories are all I have left of my two loving parents, but they’re enough to keep me warm on the coldest winter nights.

Poet and writer, Annabel Sheila lives in Moncton, NB, with her husband. A frequent contributor to Bread ‘n Molasses, she also sits on the magazine’s Editorial Board.

Purple Violets

Mama used the Sears and Roebuck catalogue to teach what I should know before starting to school. She cut out pictures and glued them to index cards so I could learn colours. Her expert hands cut a complete set of the alphabet and numbers from the catalogue. I learned to match these by searching through the thick book. By September, Mama declared I was ready for the first grade.

I was assigned to Miss Moses’ room at Hayesville Elementary School. She was impressed that I knew so much about school. A girl named Myra became my best friend. It was our job to water her purple violets. Under our care, the flowers outgrew the pot and Miss Moses had to divide them into another container.

Myra and I kept watering the flowers. In October, Myra announced she would be moving to Sylva, North Carolina. Her father had been assigned as principal of the elementary school. I was sad to see my best friend go, but I continued my job. Then, one day Mama told me we would be moving to Ellijay, Georgia. The village nestled in the foothills of the
Chattahoochee National Forest, and my daddy would haul timber there. When we moved, the mountain side was covered like a patchwork quilt of multicolored leaves. There was an abundance of oak trees, and Daddy would drive a truck and haul out logs for Ritter Lumber Company.

Daddy didn’t want to drive so far to work, so he rented a little white house with green shutters. The cottage was surrounded by mountains, tall trees, and wild animals. Sometimes a black bear loped through the yard, and at night the owls hooted loudly. One night Daddy couldn’t make it home. A truck driver stopped at our house and hollered to Mama, “Mrs. Ledford, your husband has sent word that he won’t be home tonight. His truck is stuck to the axles in mud. He’s going to have to unload the logs and try to get the truck out.”

The next morning Mama walked me to the bus. The rain had made deep ruts in our muddy road; they were so bad that the school bus couldn’t drive to our house. I rode the school bus many miles to a rock building with only two rooms. The older students were in one room. Their teacher was also the principal. My classroom was in the other room and contained several grades. There was a big pot-bellied stove in the middle of it. Miss Meeks was my first-grade teacher.

She was curious about the lunches I brought to school. We didn’t have a cafeteria, and Mama always packed my lunch. The school nurse had taken blood samples of each student. My blood hemoglobin was the highest of any grade, and they wanted to know what Mama packed in my lunch box. Since Ellijay was known as the apple capital of Georgia, she included a Golden Delicious each day. I had a little thermos filled with cold milk, and there might be carrots, cheese, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or sometimes a thermos of vegetable soup to eat as the days got colder.

Winter was very cold. Snow dusted the mountaintops, and Miss Meeks told us Christmas was coming soon. She wrote our names on a sheet of paper, folded and cut it into strips. We drew a name and would buy a Christmas present for the one we selected.

Next to the last week of school, Daddy drove us into the town of Ellijay to Christmas shop. I sped into the Chambers’ Dime Store to select a gift for my classmate. I saw a beautiful tea set painted with purple violets. I asked, “Mama, please, may I buy this for the present?”

Mama gave permission to get the tea set. She bought wrapping paper that had a red-and-white striped background with Santa faces and red stars all over it. I tied a green ribbon and a big bow on the package. I was so proud of the beautifully wrapped present.

Next day at school we had sugar cookies and red punch for our Christmas party. Then it was time to get our presents. Miss Meeks handed out gifts to everyone but me. I waited and waited, and finally interrupted her, “Miss Meeks, I didn’t get one.”

She asked the children who had drawn my name, but no one confessed. I choked on a sob and tears stung my cheeks. The next thing that I did was unlike me. I sprang out of my seat and ran to the girl that had received the present from me. I jerked the tea set off her desk and hugged it to my chest. Mrs. Meeks pried the tea set from me, “No, no, you must not do that! You gave the tea set to her for a Christmas gift.”

Mrs. Meeks went to her desk. She pulled a white handkerchief from her purse and handed it to me. The edges were embroidered with purple violets just like the ones I had faithfully watered in Miss Moses’ room.

Since that time, I can’t look at purple violets without feeling both sadness and joy.

Barbara Ledford Wright is an associate editor to Moonshine and Blind Mules anthology and has been published in 11 Old Mountain Press anthologies, including Just Between Us. Some other credits include: Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, Express Yourself 101 Vol 2 For Your Eyes Only, Fireflies and June Bugs, Yesterdays Magazette, Christmas Presence, Clothes Lines and Fresh Literary Magazine. She holds a teaching degree and has continued with post graduate writing studies.

A Somewhat Different Christmas

As every Christmas season arrives it brings back fond memories of my younger years during World War II when my dad and uncle were overseas. My family at home, Grammie, Mom and Aunt Kitty loved my sister and me so much—although I can’t remember any hugs, the love was there.

On Christmas Eve those long brown itchy stockings were hung up on the wall and we knew Santa would fill them to the top.

Christmas mornings were such a happy occasion. We each found an orange in the toe of our stockings, along with ribbon candy, barley toys and nuts galore! Crayons, colouring books, and paper dolls were some of the other gifts, along with handmade knitted mittens, socks, caps and a sweater. A new pair of winter boots and a snowsuit would likely be included if needed.

A toboggan was really THE gift! It wasn’t too long before my sister and I would be all decked out to go outside and have fun with it.

Of course we didn’t get “new” clothing every year. Grammie would hand-make lots of our clothes from used clothing (guess whose!)

My sister and I must have been the happiest kids in our community. While we were joyfully playing with our gifts on Christmas morning, Grammie, Mom and Aunt Kitty would be out in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. Now let me tell you that in our home it was DINNER! Even though times were tough during the war from 1939 to 1945, we always had lots to eat in the wintertime as well as the rest of the year. They planted a huge garden in our large backyard of potatoes, carrots, turnips, parsnips, peas, beans, and you name it!

The pantry was the place to see all those bottles of jam, jelly, mustard pickles, beets, etc. As I recall these goodies I am sitting here drooling! And not only that, I remember the brown molasses bread with raisins that Grammie made—just a moment now, I’ve got to get my hanky and dry up my drool!

Now Grammie as she was growing up did not have the opportunity of going to school, but was she ever a wise sensible woman! And don’t anyone try to differ with me, but she was the BEST cook in New Brunswick! When baking cakes, cookies and whatever, it was a pinch of salt, two pinches of baking powder, a couple of handfuls of flour and so on. Everything turned out perfectly!

In those days we didn’t have hydro in our neck of the woods, as the saying goes. We used oil lamps at night in the winter. We burned wood in the kitchen stove. In the living room we had a “Quebec Heater” in which we burned some wood and coal. Those two were the only source of heat in our house. In every bedroom upstairs, there was a round hole in one of the corners and each was surrounded by cement so that when the pipes were put up through in the winter, the floors would not catch fire when the pipes got hot. We were kept warm and cozy during the long cold winter nights!

We didn’t have indoor toilet facilities but I do recall the white chamber pot with a cover that did the trick for us kids. For the adults there was an outhouse decorated with Murescoed walls, oilcloth on the seats and the Eaton’s catalogue. That little place was kept neat and tidy, no smells! That Grammie, didn’t I just say that she was a wise and sensible woman?

Now back to Christmas again …

I remember one Christmas Eve in particular, my sister and I were bathed and tucked into bed. This was done relatively early so that Grammie, Mom and Aunt Kitty could get the tree put up and trimmed. My sister and I were so excited, we just could not get to sleep! We thought if we stayed awake we just might be able to hear the reindeer on our roof later.

Mom and Aunt Kitty walked two miles to Midnight Mass in Dalhousie. On their way home they stopped in at the neighbour’s place where they had left our gifts (for safe keeping, of course!) When they arrived home we heard them talking softly and giggling. Us girls just had to find out what they were doing. So guess what! We got out of bed, laid on our tummies at the top of the stairs and looked down into the living room, and guess what we saw—Mom and Aunt Kitty were holding a walking doll by the arms and pulling it ahead to make it walk. They had a great time walking the doll! And guess what again! I had asked that Santa would bring me a walking doll!

Well, my sister and I sneaked back to our bed very quietly and we had a serious discussion about you know who. Can you imagine two very young children having THAT discussion! Well, we decided right there that we would keep what we learned about you know who to ourselves. We loved our grammie, Mom and Aunt Kitty so much that we didn’t want to put them in such an awkward position to have to try to explain. When we got into our teens we told them and did we have a great laugh!

Life was so wonderful for me and family. As I look back into my foggy memory I thank my heavenly Father for having given me such a wonderful grammie, mom and aunt who loved me so much. I miss them because they are all deceased now, but they have left me a person who God wanted me to be. Most of all I thank God for sending his son to earth and whose birthday I celebrate each year with a greater love than I had the year before.

May each one who reads this be truly blessed this Christmas!

Seventy-four year old Mona Vail grew up in Darlington, NB, near Dalhousie in Restigouche County. She now lives in Brown’s Flat, NB.