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Revisiting the ghosts of Christmas past

Yesterday I was watching a cable channel telling the frightening story of the American presidential election when the vitriolic insanity dissolved into the sweet strains of a Christmas carol.
Christmas bow

Yesterday I was watching a cable channel telling the frightening story of the American presidential election when the vitriolic insanity dissolved into the sweet strains of a Christmas carol. “Peace on Earth and goodwill to men” is the antithesis of the vicious contest in the United States and of the murderous conflicts elsewhere in the world. I knew the sweet song of Christmas had nothing to do with religion. It was an economic message, a part of the aggressive selling campaign that begins with the expensive fantasies of Halloween and ends with the Boxing Day sales. As an historian, I know the festival of Christmas replaced Saturnalia, the pagan festival in Rome. As an observer and dissector of human activity, I know that Saturnalia began to return many years ago. As a very old man at Christmas, I neither give nor receive. All I want is the presence of loved ones.

Among the ghosts of Christmas past are members of my own and my wife’s family. They have old faces. The rest of my ghosts remain forever young.

When Christmas comes, I always spend some time alone in a darkened room, communing with my ghosts and sorting through scraps of memories of simpler times that are so deeply imbedded they will never fade. I remember when Christmas decorations were crepe paper streamers and bells and the tree was hung with fragile glass ornaments that reflected every stray beam of light. I remember when my father bought a second-hand radio and found a choir singing The First Noel. He joined in with a descant voice, high, sweet and true, as beautiful as silver bells. There was happiness in his face. I couldn’t understand why there were tears in his eyes.

I became a singer, too. As a boy soprano, I made my first appearance in church singing We Three Kings of Orient Are. I still wonder what Mary and Joseph did with the rich gifts the Magi brought for the Christ Child.

For most of my working life, I was a postmaster. This began before Canada Post, in the years when postal service was the duty of a government department. My work rule then was personal.  Deliver every piece of mail to every customer as quickly as possible, even if it means working late into the night. This was a hard credo when it cost two cents to mail a Christmas card and every family for miles around mailed them by the hundreds. I always think of the Christmas Eve when all the cards were gone and I had delivered a few Christmas parcels to people who were shut in. Then I joined a group of carolers. I was beginning to understand that the giving of self is better than the lavish gifts of the Magi.

We passed by a little house that a retired farmer had moved to the village. His wife had died before she could claim the little house as her own. Through a window without a curtain we saw the little man in a cheerless room preparing for bed. By common accord, we did not sing on his doorstep. The sense of loneliness and grief that came through his window was palpable. I wanted to give him something of myself, but I didn’t know what or how.

At a later time I had nothing to give to a gentle, handsome friend, who, after a stint in the army, plunged into a deep depression. I didn’t know how to help him. He died by his own hand.

Among my ghosts of Christmas past are six friends whom I knew from boyhood to maturity. I can see their faces. I wish they could speak to me.

I remember girls. Before I met the woman who has been my life’s companion, there were seven of them. As a teenager I began to notice how they had changed in face and form. At different times I was intrigued by each one of them. They were mysterious and alluring. Not only did I adore each in turn, I revered them. I don’t know why, but I know I could never have been a skirt lifter like Donald Trump. Of the seven, two are dead and four are gone beyond my knowledge. The one who remains, forever young in memory, was my untouchable princess on a pedestal for a longer time than any of the others. I have never sent her a Christmas card. This year I will send a copy of this column. Adding her name to the others on my diminished Christmas greeting list brings the total to nine.

This year, someone who loves me will come to take me away from the ghosts and bittersweet memories into a room filled with light and laughter. I will forgive myself for failing to make my remaining human relationships better. I have no doubt that the giving of self is the essence of both the Christmas story and the pursuit of wisdom. I am still learning how to do it.