Someone asked me the other day if I had a favourite Christmas gift. 

I hesitated before I spoke. I thought about the beautiful Birk's diamond and ruby ring my husband gave me two years ago. It is a delicate ring with four small rubies criss crossed by pave diamonds in a design that resembles a beautifully wrapped Christmas present. It is the most valuable gift I have ever received. I wear it this time of year and on special occasions. Sometimes I think I should wear it all the time but I am still a bit afraid of using expensive things for every day.

I thought about other gifts, many bought for me, some bought for myself. None stood out. Then I tried to remember Christmas presents I was given as a child. Only one popped into my head, and I thought of it not because it was a wonderful gift, but because it was one I had not wanted but got anyway. Oddly enough, it too was a ring. A blue glass ring in a gold setting. 

My family was never big on fancy presents or elaborate wrapping paper. I remember opening hastily wrapped gifts that barely covered the objects inside. Bikes and tricycles and large dolls of various colours and descriptions were littered around the Christmas tree adorned with a single bow. My mother was thrifty and recycled wrapping paper, bows and ribbon, a habit I have to this day. It irritates me, but I can't bring myself to throw away something pretty.

After pondering gifts past, I began thinking. What if the person had asked me what my best Christmas memory was? What would have my answer been then? 

Silent Night, Holy Night

It's a truism that people who grow up in traumatic environments often can't remember large chunks of their childhood.  Something to do with the effects of post traumatic stress disorder. Whole years of my life are hazy. Details aren't as clear as emotions, and emotions can be jumbled. Thinking back, I can only remember a couple of happy moments connected to Christmas. I'm not saying there weren't more, but I simply can't recollect them.

One was after I met my now husband. I remember waking up on our first  Christmas morning together and going to sit under the tree to investigate my presents. I was wearing my pyjamas and drinking a cup of coffee spiked with Kahlua. I looked up just as my husband took my picture. It's one of my favourite photographs. Thinking about it reminds me of how much in love we were then and how effortless everything seemed.

Another memory is much more distant. I was young -- maybe five or six  -- and riding at night in a horse-drawn sleigh sitting between two of my aunts and a cousin. It was very cold outside, so cold that my face was wrapped in a scarf and there were tiny  icicles in my nose. My hands and feet were frozen under the heavy horsehair blanket that we were snuggled under for warmth. I remember the dry, sweet smell of the snow, the clanking of the harnesses, and the crisp sound of the horses' hooves.  They were trotting fast. They knew the way home to the cosy barn.  

We were singing Christmas carols to stay warm, laughing our way through Jingle Bells and Good King Wenceslaus. My aunt Muriel had a beautiful pure voice and although we all began to sing Silent Night together, we stopped about half-way through to listen to her. I can still hear her voice ringing through the crystal clear prairie air. It is my favourite Christmas carol. When we got inside, it took forever for my hands and feet to thaw. One aunt rubbed my red feet and soothed the shooting pins and needles while I drank the Fry's cocoa that aunt Muriel made. I fell asleep. I don't think I have ever felt so loved and taken care of as I did in that moment.

When I awoke, it was Christmas Day and it was snowing, one perfect snowflake at a time.

The Dead

All of this reminds me of the end of one of my favourite movies, The Dead, based on James Joyce's short story in The Dubliners. I can't embed the video of John Huston's last film, but here is the link to the last scene. It is well worth watching:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvNRFfVelt4&feature=related

If I ever write anything as fine as this last paragraph of The Dead, I will die happy. 

" A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

Literature Network » James Joyce » The Dead