1425.....

"AT CHRISTMAS  all roads lead home." -David Cameron

The house where I grew up. 1425 Fairfield. Used to be known as the "Christmas House", or so my dad called it. My mother would just sniff at that.  A vacant  shell of itself years later.  Christmas long past.  It was  a modest box house. Set amongst a forest. That forest is long gone now. Other homes  bloom beside it.  Great trees that used to be, are no longer. But I know them. I wonder if they would remember me.....

Those first Christmases  at 1425 were scorching hot. A new Coal and Wood stove heated the house and cooked the fruitcakes.  One Christmas there was a fire in the stove pipe.  My mother beat out the flames on the wall with a wet dish rag and a dish pan full of soapy water. The scorch marks were there many years later. 

  Another Christmas the old stove was taken out and a new electric oven installed. My mother didn't trust it. She  cooked on a Coleman burner outside for weeks, till the gas ran out around New Year's. She used to dry underwear inside the oven, till they scorched.

That year, Christmas dinner for eight hungry humans, was hamburgers and french fries. AND her hard as rock plum pudding.  She used to boil that thing till it turned into a bowling ball. The women set the table, while the   men smoked outside. The smoke hung in drifts outside the back door. Cigarette butts stuck out of the small patches of snow, left by some ancient storm. My mother used to collect those butts when everyone was gone.

When the  fire burned low my mother took it upon herself to hike up to  chop wood. I saw her doing that, well into her 70's. She'd march through the men smoking on the back steps, grab an ax, hoist up her skirts and trudge  to the back of the property. The men were told not to stir themselves.  They just blew rings of smoke and chuckled.

You could hear the chop chop hack of the ax  from the kitchen.   My mother  plopped  the wood into a piece of burlap and dragged it back to the house. Then hauedl piece after piece  into the living room to stoke the fire. The men just chuckled and smoked. Cigarette butts everywhere.

The Grandfather clock rang out announcing the start of  the radio broadcast of Messiah. It was a new clock then. Old clock now. It still rings the hours and moments. Every year, at 1425, would see everyone  sitting in a ring.   After  the Hallelujah Chorus it was time for a  smoke  break. More cigarette butts to gather, as people hurried home. 

Years later, my  mother told me stories, late at night, about driving the cutter on the farm.  In the snow. In the cold. Deep cold. On Christmas Day. Blankets, cushions, hot bricks to keep their feet warm,

Driving so fast the horse broke the reins, one Christmas morning causing the cutter to slide  into a ditch, and the horse, named Sandy, to bolt back to the farm.  No harm was done. They laughed and squealed , till they could laugh no more.  Then raced back up the lane to get Sandy, so he could  pull the cutter home.  All roads lead home. 

The last year my grandmother was alive was 1956. Never knew her.  I knew she and my grandfather had come from the farm to live with my parents. 1425 was a full place by then.  My grandmother did not like her picture taken. Said it was unnatural. Insisted on wearing new hose and new shoes, then she changed her dress and had my mother  pin up her hair. Then changed her shoes again. Grandfather draped himself beside her, fragrant pipe smoke drifted from his nostrils. Then it was evening.

Candles were lit. Tough old plum pudding   washed down with sherry.  Christmas Eve was quiet. Filled with someone reading Dickens aloud. Stockings hung by the hearth. Lumps of coal  shoved into the bottom, with an orange in the toe. Socks and underwear filling out the middle  A small paper bag of prunes on the top ...reindeer food....

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"The best of all gifts around any tree, the presence of a family wrapped up in each other. " -Burton Hills

There have been many houses in the years.  But I still see 1425 . Small and  quiet  in the forest, where trees  grew, where  people lingered ,  and cigarette butts were left.It's smoke stained kitchen,  and the electric stove where my mother burned oatmeal . The ax  on the hearth. 

I still see my mother opening her house to anyone who came calling.  I still see her chopping wood in any weather. I see her handing people coal at New Year's telling them to bring it in and bring good fortune. I see her stirring plum pudding and fruit cake, neither of which was edible.

There is without a doubt she offered  the best seat in the house. Right by the fire. Guests found dozing.   There'd be music and kind conversation, shortbread, treats and that ever present tea, sometimes laced with sherry, sometimes not. Mincemeat tarts so hot you'd burn your fingers on the pastry.

The smoking parties  vanished in time.  Ashtrays now held scotch mints  in every room of the house. My mother preserved my father's tin of tobacco, with his cigarette papers,  along with his smoking jacket , in a corner of her closet. Every so often she'd bury her nose in  that jacket. She'd say, years later, that  it still reminded her of him. Standing there in the night, with the others. His laughter ringing out. She liked to remember that.

Every Christmas eve,  1425 shared a spread of cheeses and crackers, sherry, wine, coffee, pickles, smoked oysters, sweets galore, fruitcake, hot mince tarts, shortbread , frosted strawberries, and that infamous Plum Pudding, for the friends who dropped in. And they came. One after another. Faithfully friends. To sit by the fire. To warm their hands.  To laugh and  remember the years. To speak of the past and of the future. To wait for the moment of the Watch night. It was their  road home. To hear the Grandfather clock ring out  Joy,  on each dark Christmas morning, that beamed with Light..........

 Photographs 2022

BUTTERSCOTCH CHRISTMAS

"Run lad, run, down the middle of Christmas at the centre of life.." - Ray Bradbury

The first time I ever saw Butterscotch Squares was at a wedding reception. I had been asked to sub for a friend. My stand partner was an elderly man.  I was told he was 85 . Hard of hearing.  He taped a list of  the songs we had to play on the back of his violin. He lost it somewhere between the fourth and fifth carol.

Afterwards, there was a spread in the main hall. Christmas goodies galore. And the Butterscotch Squares were flying off the plate. 

Tables were laden with  tarts, pies, candies, more candy, squares, fruit, and the Butterscotch Confetti. Ooey gooey , pretty to look at and left lots of sticky fingers in its wake.

The wedding itself was fraught with mishaps. My elderly violin partner, Mr. Higgins, fell asleep during the preachers's monologue. It had that Mr. Bean vibe . I think the rest of the band nodded of for a while as well. I had to tap his violin to wake him up. 

The ring bearer , all of 8 years of age, ran screaming down the aisle and threw the pillow into  the pulpit lined with fake daisies.  He then threw himself onto the floor in the middle of the aisle and wouldn't move.

Mr. Higgins had us play Gesu Bambino four times till someone dragged the  boy into another aisle.  He never moved after that.The groom walked down the aisle, barefoot, cause someone took his shoes as a joke.

Mr. Higgins frequently combed his long grey hair with his fingers. More out of nerves.The bride was late. And when she DID arrive and start down the aisle, her veil kept falling off.

The bride's  mother swooned in the packed church.The preacher perspired profusely, and Mr. Higgins tugged at his frilled shirt of his pale blue tuxedo. People sitting in rocking chairs at back of church could be heard rocking away. Squeak Squeak Squeak. Out of time. A lady with violent red Christmas bauble earrings sat right in the front row. They blinked off and on. Mr. Higgins waved his violin bow at her. She paid no mind and giggled.

 And  over it all we had to play the wedding march "Chariot's of Fire". Ad infinitum. The wedding party was huge. 

When the singer was primed to sing her solo " At Last" she kept moving her hands in a circular motion. Mr. Higgins, positively fit to be tied, poked her with his bow. She gave him a dirty look and warbled her way to the end of the song. Then grabbed her purse and huffed off the stage during the signing of the register. Her long skirt caught on the stairs and ripped. Mr. Higgins tapped his bow on his music stand. The sign that string players gave when applauding.

Mr, Higgins started playing a random fiddle tune. His bow whishing along the strings,  as if it could fly. "Join in" he shouted at the band. We did . But his fingers flew across the strings.Faster and faster. His microphone picked up his whistling and humming as he whizzed through his fiddle rendition . He may have been a million years old, but he could play us under the table.

"That's how it's done, girlie" he yelled. He stomped his way to the end of the fling. Everyone roared with applause.  Mr. Higgins  shrugged and dabbed his sweaty brow. It was party time.

At the reception, everyone hungrily chomped down on the treats. The butterscotch confetti was the highlight.  The Christmas lights sparkled and danced.And Mr. Higgins  played carols for ages. He was unstoppable.  And it was magic.Pure magic.

RECIPE: ( I double this) 1 bag butterscotch chips, 1/2 cup smooth peanut butter, 1/4 cup marg, or butter, 1 bag mini coloured marshmallows ( much more interesting than plain white ones)

Heat first 3 ingredients, till melted, stir till smooth. Cool down a bit. Dump in the marshmallows. Pile into wax  paper lined pan 13x13 and chillin fridge till set. YUMMMMMM

"Miracles happen on Christmas. Everyone knows that. " -Matthew Quick

Photographs 2020

 

CONDUCTING CHRISTMAS

"Gifts of time and love are surely the basic ingredients of a truly merry Christmas."-Peg Bracken

They always came at Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Totting. Always dressed to the nines. Always on time.He wore a cream brown suit with a thin tie. She was coifed and perfumed.A mink stole around her silk suit. They were old chums of my parents. They used to go dancing together for years.And now, they came to our house. For years, after my father was no more.

They came for the old days. For the friendship. For the music on the stereo.  For the sherry and the Vinegar tarts.

                                                     
They looked like the mincemeat tarts. But they weren't. My mother made sure the fire was roaring. I don't know how she did it. She always put on a spread for Mr. and Mrs. Totting.

The ever present smoked oysters, cream crackers ( all company got those), Hickory farms cheeses, cut into cubes, radishes in the shape of flowers, strawberries dipped in chocolate, sandwiches  ( three kinds), shortbread dipped in chocolate, fruitcake buttered like bread, and tarts.  Vinegar tarts.

Tea. Sherry. More tea. and Christmas records on the old stereo. The one my dad bought  a few years before he died. He and Mr. Totting used to play records and conduct invisible orchestras. It was their passion. Their past time. They would laugh and take turns.

It was a quiet time. My mother, nervous about the evening,  making sure the fire roasted everyone alive. Mr. and Mrs. Totting happily  munching , slurping, drinking and laughing away the night.

But it was  a tad empty. My father was no longer there. But yet, he was still there. You could feel him there.

 My mother served the Vinegar Tarts scalding hot.  Their innards burst out of the pasty like molten lava. Squirted all over Mrs. Totting's nice suit jacket. 

Christmas VINEGAR TARTS ( 1940’s)

(Basically a gooey type of butter tart, but without raisins. My grandmother and mother made these all the time ….)

 ¾ cup brown sugar

1 large tablespoon of butter

2 tablespoon of  red wine vinegar, or balsamic, or white vinegar

½ cup corn syrup

2 eggs

 Beat all together, pour into  tart shells and bake at 350 till filling is set, about 18 minutes.  ( Makes about 14 tarts) Don't serve them scalding hot.

 

While my mother hurried to find a cloth to clean the jacket I was told to play. Dutifully I hauled out my violin and started sawing away on any Christmas carol I knew.  At least four times thru. I was methodical.I saw Mr. and Mrs. Totting wince. They always winced when I began playing. But held their smiles. I thought that meant they were loving it. So I scraped away at some more  carols till I was told to stop.

Every year they came I had to play. Every year they smiled and nodded. They must have loved music,  cause my mother had me play piano next. They didn't wince as much then.

One year,  on the same day, same time, we expected them again. My mother put out the spread and set the fire, and turned on the stereo to play Harry Belafonte. 

But the evening dragged on and they never came.

They had forgotten. They came  a few days later. Then that spring they moved away. We never saw them again. Never again would I serenade them with four choruses of each carol I knew. 

The last time they were here, Mr. Totting put on a record. and he conducted away. Like he would have when he and my father would do.  I watched Mr. Totting smile. The years seemed to melt away as he remembered  the Christmas evenings  when there was music and laughter  and those vinegar tarts.....

"The light of the Christmas star to you.The warmth of hearth and home to you..." -Sherryl Woods

Photographs 2020