10 Things that Made 2009 a Mighty Good Year!

At Bread ‘n Molasses we believe in focusing on the positive and expressing gratitude. As we close this year’s 12 Days of Christmas special event and begin a brand new year with the magazine, here’s Editor, Kellie Underhill’s list of 10 things that made 2009 one mighty good year!

1. Always in first place, the unconditional love and support of my family, without you all I would be an empty shell. You are the backbone of my spirit.
2. Being able to do the work I most love to do, with the best crew I’ve ever worked with. You guys are the best! And together we are mighty!
3. Having the opportunity to help organize and emcee at Miramichi’s first Walk to Cure Diabetes, where we raised an amazing amount of money and had so many volunteers show up to help that we didn’t even need them all. What a fantastic accomplishment to have taken part in!
4. Taking part in the Words on Water arts series and launching issues of Bread ‘n Molasses magazine there.
5. Getting my passport and beginning new adventures in travel outside the country.
6. Being able to work with our wonderfully patient Editorial Board of dedicated volunteers: Judy Bowman, Joan Cripps, Christina Donovan, Dianne Mullin and Annabel Sheila.
7. Having the continued support of regular columnists & contributors, who are too many to list but individually appreciated, admired and respected. You guys rock! (you know who you are) And you are the true backbone of this publication.
8. Being introduced to so much new talent on a regular basis. Photographers, artists, musicians, authors—it is such a blessing to be able to discover such an abundance of natural talent right in our own backyard and then be able to showcase their endeavours and share it with a broader audience. This is the number one reason why I love my work.
9. Friends. In 2009, I made new friends I will cherish forever and took other friendships to new levels of trust and intimacy, strengthening our bond. I’m thankful to have so many good people in my life.
10. And finally, though certainly not last, 2009 was a year full of change: publishing changes, deadline changes, moves, new formats, new programs, new looks, new people, beginnings, endings, and much more. I believe change is good. I believe if you embrace change and go with it you will bring your life to the next level, reach even higher goals. It’s through change that we grow. And all this change was definitely one reason why 2009 was one mighty good year!

Why was 2009 a great year for you? What 10 things are you thankful for from last year? Share your list with everyone in the comments section.

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Golden Christmas Memories

Christmas lights sparkle like stars,
Reflected in his beautiful blue eyes,
In wonder he gazes at the spectacle
He helped Grammy and Grampy create.
His personal touch gives the tree
A somewhat lopsided effect,
For clusters of ornaments hang
In his favourite spot – one branch
Near the bottom, on the left side,
His little hands hold silver bells
Meant for the tree, but
He jingles them and laughs,
Dancing around the room,
While the Chipmunks sing
“All I want for Christmas”,
Rosy cheeks and wide eyes,
His excitement infectious!
His laughter contagious!
His presence enchanting!
We’re capturing these moments
In our hearts and in our minds,
For our beloved grandchild
Is giving us a precious gift,
Golden memories filled with joy,
That we’ll cling to and cherish
When his childhood has bloomed,
Like an opening rosebud,
And our little boy becomes
The man he is destined to be;
Merry Christmas my love,
From Grammy and Grampy!

© Annabel Sheila, Moncton NB

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Our Christmas Star

By Joan Cripps

Two year old Nadine is no longer with us. She celebrates Christmas with baby Jesus, but every year she has a special part in our Christmas celebrations.

I can’t remember exactly when the tradition began in our family; however, every Christmas we have a “Tree Trimming” party at the camp for the grandchildren.

The first party was met with great enthusiasm and preparation as each child had to make their own ornaments for the tree. Jonathon strung popcorn with Auntie Aileen and Nanny. Sherry Lynn and Robin made lovely paper chains, while Heather who is very creative made silver bells out of egg cartons. Auntie Lynn made a tiny stocking for each child with their name on it, and a candy cane sticking out of the top. Little Evan and Josh were too tiny so their mommy made their ornaments.

The party began with much fanfare as each family arrived. Arms loaded, shaking snow from their boots and greeting one another. After everyone had arrived we stood around admiring the tree Poppy brought in from the woods, and set up in the porch.

Out comes all the beautiful ornaments the children made. Oohs and ahhs as each child put their ornament on the tree. Now Uncle Rob brings out the special ornament. Everyone holds their breath as he lifts Stevie, who places his sister’s beautiful large silver star with four sides on which Nadine’s name is printed in large bright bold letters. Nadine was with us once more, if not in body, in Spirit. The tears were creeping through the joy as everyone clapped and hugged each other.

With the tree all decorated we sat down to a sing song, as uncle Percy got out his guitar. We all sang joyfully, Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, etc. Suddenly as we were singing Here comes Santa Claus we could hear bells in the background. Turning around we saw Santa coming down the stairs with a large sack on his back and a jolly Ho, Ho, Ho. He took a seat by the fireplace, and invited each child to sit on his knee and tell him their Christmas wish. He then opened his sack and gave each child a gift. Moms and dads were busy taking pictures when Santa called their child’s name. He even had a gift for Nanny and Poppy, and they had to sit on his knee too. When all the gifts were presented Santa rose and wished all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. As he left the camp he said he would see us all again next year. After the gifts were opened it was time for our strawberry sherbet punch, while the moms prepared supper.

After a delicious supper and clean up it was time to go home, and each child was lovingly bundled up to meet the cold crisp night air.

Many more grandchildren have arrived since that first Tree Trimming Party, but each year as the Christmas star is placed on the treetop we reminisce about a little two year old girl named Nadine who is celebrating Christmas with Baby Jesus.

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Christmas

Lights, all colours, tinsel of gold
Garlands, each pole and post adorn
At most every twist and turn
Folk all scurrying to and from

Friends and neighbours, down the way
Shout Merry Christmas! Hear that cry!
Deep from the peoples heart and soul
The wish that’s echoed far and nigh

The spirit of yuletide saturates the air
Childrens’ voices, loud with glee
Guessing the presents, size and shape
As they romp around the Christmas tree

Through the merriment another sound
Fills the air with music, soft, and clear
Silent Night, a hush, none, can compare
Our Jesus, abides with us, no need to fear

Christmas is for children, one cannot deny
Our life is bound around them,
As it was The Child, those years ago
Those are my beliefs, as I put my pen aside

Amen

© 2009 Charles E. Frost

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On Christmas Eve

by Paul Bryan

I can recall every year in the fall when the wind carried yellow leaves along the road leaving our trees beside the house bare, my grandfather, Poppa, would hitch up Bessy to the wagon and head down to the sawmill.

It was located out by the river where three mountains of sawdust stood like golden pyramids. As a mere boy, I was happy to be permitted to go along, sitting up on the buckboard seat and holding the reins as if I were really driving the horse while Poppa let the ends trail over his lap, in case.

At the mill he would shovel the sawdust into the back of the wagon. Of course Bessy would walk slower on the return journey. Back home, the sawdust had to be banked around the house in order to stop the wind and coming snow from sneaking in under the floors.

By the end of the day a golden line would run around the base of the square Victorian house contrasting with the black weathered shingles. I watched him do it all, laying fir boughs, and quietly preparing for winter. In fact as a boy I watched him do everything. He would see me watching him and smile. Everything had to be done before the temperature dropped and snow came blowing past the windows.

The small garden beside the house had produced some good potatoes, corn, beets and carrots during the season. Poppa put each vegetable lot into a large basket and stowed them in the dug-out cellar, passing through the trap door beneath the staircase inside the house. Raspberries and strawberries were bottled and preserved, sitting ready in the pantry. Bessy’s field had been cut, hay forked and baled into the barn right to the rafters, her roof tacked down with a new sheet of tar paper, and the woodshed stacked with jags of dry hardwood slabs.

I would watch him, my grandfather, who would be sitting with a glint in his eye beside the Enterprise wood range in the kitchen listening to the fire crackle and the NHL games being broadcast play-by-play by Foster Hewitt on the radio, and come to understand him and the fall, and what it was all about. Then fall was gone soon enough.

Winter was not a time to do anything. His only jobs now in December that I could see were to go out and check Bessy in the barn twice a day, and keep both fires burning in the house. There was a second stove in the living room with a piece of sheet metal nailed protectively over the floor boards. It was the main source of heating for the entire house. He would stoke it three times a day, plus once at night. The stove pipe ran through the upstairs hallway to the roof. It was the only way to warm the upstairs during the cold nights. Sometimes I could hear my grandmother, Mumma, nudging him at 3:30 in the morning to go down and stoke the fire. The stairs always creaked as he descended in his long johns. He never missed this duty. I remember it all so well, as a mere boy in the 1950’s.

By the 1970’s, life had changed in the house. Our family had grown to seven by now, with me the oldest having younger brothers and sisters. I was in college at this time and arrived home for Christmas sporting a shiny blue college leather jacket. The place was basically the same except a little more run down. The horse barn was still there but Bessy was gone. A friend of the family had come by with his gun, and walked the old mare over to the Priest’s Pasture through the trees for the last time.

Mumma too had passed on. So my mother ran the house now.

The wood stoves had been replaced by an oil furnace, run by a thermostat on the wall. There was no garden, not like it used to be, only the rhubarb coming every year. Nearby stores supplied all our food needs. Poppa was still there, although a different man, feeling a little out of place in a different world, sometimes staring at the small round thermostat on the wall, sometimes still getting up at 3:30 in the morning to stoke the fire, wandering about the house looking for the stove, which had long since been sold.

Most of the time he would sit in the kitchen, always smiling if anyone approached him. I would rub his bald head as I spoke to him. The faster I rubbed his head, the more he would smile. He could still remember the old songs, and would render one or two in the evening if he were asked. “I left my home in Sligo, where the pigs and praeties grow . . .” I taped him on the cassette, because I knew that his time was near, and I didn’t want to let him go.

On the evening of December 23rd, my mother asked me about a tree. There was a hesitation. I understood what she was saying. It was my role in the family as the oldest male. I knew that the idea of buying a cultivated tree was remote to her, and even myself. It was how I had been brought up, that with all of the trees in the forest, it was unthinkable. For her, Poppa had always taken his axe and sleighed into the woods with Bessy. Always he had returned with a beautiful evergreen, and the entire family would bustle around getting it decorated before midnight mass. But Poppa was no longer able to do that.

Now it was my turn. I saw Poppa looking at me across the room, eyes watery, sitting erect in his chair, just watching. At noon the next day I threw on my shiny jacket, slipped on my grandfather’s gum boots, and set out with a hand saw. The snow was deep through the field past the Fox Ranch. After 10 minutes of slugging though the drifts I had reached the edge of the forest, where the snow became even deeper. Here I stood still and listened as my breath hung in the frosty air. What did she want, I asked myself, fir, pine, or an old spruce?

I trudged on among the trees. It was beginning to feel chilly. My jacket was too short and sometimes my bare back would be exposed if I raised my arms. I seemed to recall that Poppa always wore a one-piece woolen long johns under his shirt and leggins, with a good cardigan over that. “No break in the tar paper made the warmest house,” he had said, meaning no place for the wind to touch his back. I zippered up my thin jacket and tried to concentrate on the task before me.

The perfect specimen was a fir, about seven feet high, full bodied, symmetrical. I was a bit tired. Poppa would have had his tree by this time, I reminded myself. By three o’clock I had zigzagged through the alders, crossed Williston Road, followed the Church Brook until I had reached the bottom of the Cross Road’s Hill, almost a mile from the house. There were raucous crows in the treetops over me, cawing and creating the worst racket among themselves. I looked up to count them. Then I saw it.

It was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. The lights were already on it. I stared at it for a good five minutes. The problem was obvious. It was the tiptop of a 30 foot tree. How could I ever reach it. I placed the saw on the ground and leaped to catch hold of the bottom limb. Snow plopped onto my face, and I dropped back down. I looked at the saw again. Then I understood everything. With great exuberance, I raced back through the trees, across the field until I came to Bessy’s Barn. It was four o’clock. I sneaked in and replaced the saw with the axe, and the jacket with a lined woolen coat. By 4:30 I had returned to the tree, bringing along a short rope tied around my waist.

I now had a choice. I could chop down the entire tree to get at the top, or I could climb and sit on a limb and do the job. For whatever reason, I chose the latter, and tied the axe to my waist with the rope. I managed to reach the bottom limb and pull myself up to the middle boughs of the tree. Then I wedged the axe carefully against the limbs while I tied the rope around the stock and myself at the same time to secure from falling backwards.

On the first magnificent swing, I slipped. But the rope had done its job, and I dangled for a few seconds among the branches before I hoisted myself back up. After that I braced my feet better, and did not swing so hard. By little chips and chops letting the axe do the work, a “V” was nitched in one side. When I struck the other side, the top began to gently lean and finally topple down to the ground. I descended now fast limb by limb to the ground. I set out for home carrying the axe in my left hand and hauling the tree with the rope leaving a furrow in the snow. The horizon was beginning to turn red, and the forest had darkened a little when I arrived home.

I walked into the kitchen. My mother was at the stove priming the keymac for supper. She turned around with eyes bent on me. “Well, did you get it?” She followed me out to the back step, accompanied by my excited brothers and sisters, and even Poppa coming last. It was a spruce tree.

“Thank God,” she declared. “It’s beautiful!” my oldest sister said. I retrieved the saw from the horse barn and sawed off the base so that it was flat to nail a wide board on. I can still remember us decorating the tree that evening. I used the same rope to hold it up against the wainscot wall. Poppa sat at the table. I saw him looking at me, a light in his eye. Everyone was helping to pass the lights along the boughs and hang the icicles. When it was all decorated with the star on top, the switch for the room lights was turned off. It was dark. Suddenly the tree lit up, a spectacular illumination. The tree belonged to us all. Then we dressed for church. Poppa stayed behind to keep an eye on the tree. He watched us from the window as we went in a line along the snowy path across the field to St. Samuel’s Church.

Today, those days are gone. No one goes into the woods anymore to get a tree. It is illegal. I am getting old like Poppa, and living alone. Another Christmas has come, and I am wondering if I should go down to the local mall and shell out $25 or $50 for a fir. It has been a while since I put one up. But if I do, it will be on Christmas Eve, and not before.

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Warm memories of Christmas long ago,
Fill my heart as the season draws near.
Mom and Dad and seven of us,
All filled with Christmas cheer.

Those weren’t the times of plenty,
Our presents from Santa were few.
But it didn’t seem to matter at all,
We had love and happiness it’s true.

The annual family Christmas tree hunt,
For the very best tree we could get,
Is a memory that’s carved into my heart,
One I will never forget!

Our tree decorations were simple,
And we all gathered round to help out.
Laughing and sharing tradition,
That’s what Christmas was all about.

There were apples, oranges, grapes and nuts,
And a turkey dressed to feed nine.
Mom and Dad cooked the Christmas feast,
That was always ready on time.

I vaguely remember the gifts I got,
For Christmas long since past,
But the feelings of love and family,
Are the gifts that I’m certain will last.

© Annabel Sheila, Moncton NB

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Chocolate Thumbprint Cookies

Chocolate Thumbprint Cookies

Carol Gillespie tried this recipe from her sister-in-law and decided it was so delicious and easy to make that she would share it with our readers. A wonderful holiday treat!

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The Christmas Angels

by Myrna Beth Lambert

It was a picture book Christmas Eve. Snow was falling and lawns were covered in white. Homes were framed by the coloured lights of evergreens and lawn decorations.

Six carolers, three men and three women dressed in green velvet coats, stood before the old house on Littlewood Avenue singing their hearts out. Angelic voices surrounded the home.

The carolers smiled at the little girl who was standing in her crib peeking through the curtains of the first floor window. Her face was aglow reflecting the Christmas spirit as seen through the eyes of a small child. When the carolers finished singing, the curtain gently closed and the little girl disappeared from view.

The door of the brightly lit home opened and the Bensons, a handsome couple, greeted the carolers.

“You sing beautifully. We’ve never had carolers before. Please come in and join us for some hot chocolate and dessert,” said Mrs. Benson.

They were having a Christmas Eve party and the table was laden with pastries filled with heavy creams, fruits and nuts. It was a table fit for a king.

The tree was magnificent, filled with an abundance of ornate ornaments. Several beautifully wrapped gift boxes lay under the tree.

Three needlepoint stockings hung by the chimney. The lead caroler, Sara, was very observant. She noticed the names Mary, Robert and Joshua. stitched at the top of the stockings.

“Are the children asleep?” she asked the lovely hostess.

“My son has been sleeping for some time,” answered Mary.

“He tried to stay awake so that he could hear Santa’s reindeer but he was sleeping soundly by the time my husband finished the ‘The Night before Christmas.’”

“Is your daughter also sleeping?” asked Jana, the youngest of the carolers.

“We have only one child,” said Mary. She was smiling, but her eyes were filled with sadness. “We had hoped for other children, but it hasn’t happened.”

“By next Christmas you will have a daughter and she will be beautiful just like her mother,” said Sara.

Mary looked at Sara in bewilderment.

The carolers said their goodbyes. Once outside Jana commented on the three stockings. “There was not one for a little girl.”

“Not this year,” said Sara. “But there will be one for her next year.”

“If you say so,” said Mark. He never questioned Sara. Angels never question each other.

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.

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Christmas on a Shoe-String Budget when your String is Frayed and your Shoes have Holes in Them

by Angela McAffee

I’m not rich yet. I tried to pretend to be middle class for awhile but they threw me back when they realized I couldn’t afford a PVR. Needless to say, I’ve learned some tips and tricks on getting creative with Christmas. Here’s my top three:

1) Make a list – stick to it!
If you get bored and stop reading right now, if you have the memory of a goldfish and only remember one thing — remember this–make a list. Stick to it. If you’re still with me, I have a couple more tips.

2) Don’t use your credit cards:
Unless you can pay it off within 30 days. That new gadget your teenaged son just has to have will be obsolete in a few months. That outfit your daughter’s been dying to have? Out of fashion by spring. You know what’s not out of fashion? Sticking to a budget, actually saying no to the little ones every once in awhile. Don’t let the commercials get to you. You are not a bad parent if you don’t get them the new Nintendo DSI or that new cell phone with keyboard texting capability. They will survive. So will you. “Oh, but that’s what Christmas is all about!” I can hear you saying. No, its not. I think we’ve all seen the “Grinch who Stole Christmas”, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and “Scrooge.” I don’t need to re-preach that old tale. But its old for a reason – these kinds of stories endure because they’re true. It’s our job to make sure our children know it too. Which leads me to my third tip…

3) Homemade gifts aren’t just for kids:
Why don’t you engage the kids in helping you make some home-made gifts? You will save money, spend quality time with your kids, and teach them the value of a gift that comes from the heart, instead of the wallet. Now that’s an efficient way to spend time and not money! Some good ideas are baking cookies, making apple cider, chocolate balls, throw them in a basket you can buy at the dollar store and voila! Instant gift. Don’t have the time you say? It doesn’t have to be done all at once, treats like that will freeze until you are ready to put them all together!

If you can do just one of these things this Christmas you are well on your way to being at one with the true spirit of Christmas, and having a stress-free January billing period. Like Mark Twain says, “Always do right. You’ll gratify some and astonish the rest.”

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