Dec. 17: Seven more sleeps till Christmas

When we were kids, we wanted to go Christmas carolling on December 1. Dad wouldn't let us. "Too early," he said. I disagreed. I reasoned that if I could open the first door of the advent calendar, then I could go Christmas carolling too. 

By that point, Christmas was already in the air anyway. Maybe a third of the houses on our street had their lights up, there was snow on the ground, and Christmas stuff had been in the stores since Halloween was over. Still, no dice. "The week before Christmas is when you can go."

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Here in Glengarry, the first Santa Claus Parade takes place in late November, sometimes more than a month before Christmas hits. This year, the weather was unseasonably warm. Rainy too. There was absolutely no snow and no one was wearing their parkas or toques. 

Same thing for the other parades. I don't remember the mercury dipping too low for any of 'em. But right now there's snow outside. Lots of it too. The weather people tell us we got a good 40 centimetres of it Friday night. I guess that's a good thing to get when you only have seven more sleeps till Christmas.

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Usually around this time, our family Christmas tree would be up. There would be presents under it too. Most of the presents would be from our parents. On Christmas morning, there would be more presents from Santa. Santa's handwriting and my dad's were identical. I realized that as early as Grade 1 but I never mentioned it until I was well into my twenties.

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Eventually, my sister and I were allowed to go carolling. Neither of us were particularly good singers but we were both too young to care about that. Our audiences were always appreciative. One lady kissed our cheeks. Another lady gave us oranges. Yes, and somewhere in there - Christmas of 1980 or 1981, I imagine - my Cub Scout troop went Christmas carolling at a nursing home next to Heritage Park in southwest Calgary (see the big H?) I remember singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer because one of my fellow Cubs had encouraged us to add the commentary lines, as in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny rose (like a lightbulb.)"

I remember thinking that we were a pretty humdrum group of kids and we were pretty cruddy singers and no one was going to like us, but the exact opposite was true. There was a full house. Old people had come out just to hear us sing. In the front row was a bent over woman in a wheelchair - the staff told us she had just turned 101 - and had been looking forward to the concert all week. When it was done, she wanted to meet us. I was one of the ones she met. I still remember the gnarled and cold fingers as they gripped my hand, her wet kiss on my cheek, her faint "God bless you."

So yeah... these are some of the things you think about when there's seven more sleeps till Christmas.

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I have told this next story before but I will tell it again since so many people like it. It happened when there was exactly one sleep until Christmas. Yep, Christmas Eve. We're coming home from Midnight Mass. I see the 7-Eleven is open so I beg my dad to stop. I want a Slurpee. It's Christmas Eve and dad's in a good mood. He says yes. Sister and brother were sleeping. He probably would have said no if everyone was up.

In the 7-Eleven there are only two people - the clerk and a Sikh, who is wearing a security guard uniform. I tell the clerk I want a Dr. Pepper Slurpee and as he goes about preparing it, I turn to the Sikh and, with a mischievous smile on my face, I say "Merry Christmas."

I didn't know much about the Sikh faith but I knew they had no particular use for December 25 and that they don't venerate our Lord Jesus Christ. I thought my salutation might get me an evil glare and an admonishment to be more respectful of other people's religions.

Instead, that Sikh gave me a warm smile and stuck out his hand. "Merry Christmas, little boy," he said as he shook my hand. "Is Santa coming tonight?"

I hadn't believed in Santa for a couple years. I had no idea how to answer that, especially since I felt both ashamed and humiliated.

The clerk but the Slurpee on the counter and the Sikh said: "I will buy that Slurpee for you, little boy. That will be my Christmas present to you."

I don't remember what I got that Christmas, but I'll never forget that Slurpee.

Picture: Jay Del Corro