I’M DREAMING OF A WARM CHRISTMAS

            One of these Christmases I plan on spending the holiday season down south. Somewhere warm – Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Florida...it doesn’t matter, just so long as I can attend Christmas Eve service in short pants.

            It seems that whenever I mention my dream to people, someone feels the need to offer a bit of wisdom along the lines of, “It won’t feel like Christmas without snow.” Let me offer a simple rebuttal. This is a fallacy.

            All those classic holiday specials where Bing and Perry sang Christmas carols in the falling snow were actually filmed in California studios where nobody ever suffered so much as a cool breeze. Irving Berlin wrote his classic song “White Christmas” while enjoying life in his Hollywood mansion. And don’t get me started on his other lyric from the White Christmas movie, “I want to wash my hands, my face and hair with snow.”

            I often speculate that our need to idealize the wonders of snow is probably some sort of defense mechanism. Holiday songs extolling its wonders, and picturesque cottage scenes by Thomas Kinkade, have combined with our very human sense of self-preservation to convince us that sub-zero temperatures and snarled up traffic somehow constitute a winter wonderland. Just because Santa Claus chooses to live in a frigid climate, do we all have to suffer?

            It feels like I have spent almost every Christmas of my adult life either struggling though snowstorms to get home for the holidays, or shoveling myself out once I got there. One year a raging blizzard managed to make my return drive from Montreal to Toronto into an 11-hour trip.  Another time a storm knocked out the electricity on Christmas Day, making dinner preparations a bit challenging. Last Boxing Day Montreal was pounded with the largest snowstorm ever recorded in that city’s history. 

            Before I come across sounding too Grinch-like, let me say that I do have fond memories of many Christmases; walking to midnight service in a light snowfall, tobogganing down snow-covered hills, enjoying the warmth of a fireplace and the twinkle of a brightly lit tree as I watched the flakes cascade gently past the window. 

            Magical moments, one and all; but strangely conspicuous by its absence is the memory of how unpleasantly cold the weather no doubt was. It’s almost like my brain discarded that information in order to make the recollection more festive.

            I am not speaking purely hypothetically here; rest assured I have actually experienced warm weather during the holiday season. A few years back I found myself wandering along the streets of Fort Lauderdale one late November evening, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, admiring all the houses beautifully decorated in anticipation of Christmas.

            It was dark, the colored lights were magical, and I did not miss the cold and snow for one second. If anything, the warm weather enhanced the experience by allowing me to marvel at the wondrous lighting displays at my leisure. I didn’t need to enjoy them through a frost-covered windshield or be forced to retreat into a heated car seconds before hypothermia set in.

            In short, it made me realize that I could quite happily spend my entire holiday by the side of a pool, sipping a tropical Christmas cocktail. In fact I believe Christmas morning would be just as festive if the exchanging of gifts was followed up with a trip to the beach, and I am positive that the aroma of turkey wafting through the house is equally compelling when the temperature outdoors is 30 above rather than 30 below.

            I got married this past July, so Christmas trips must now be divided between my family in Quebec and hers in Manitoba. That’s right, I married someone who comes from an even colder province than I do. Why she could not have been raised in some tropical climate is beyond me, but rest assured I intend to bring up the topic the next we find ourselves digging out of the inevitable Christmas blizzard.

            So for this year at least I will relinquish my dream of a tropical Christmas and instead pretend that the holiday just wouldn’t be the same without bitter cold, icy roads and howling blizzards. However I will continue to promote my theory that everyone should head south next December. After all, it only makes sense. There must be some reason that the traditional choice to add to eggnog is tropical rum.

            Merry Christmas…or should I say Mele Kalikimaka!

www.randyvancourt.com

A MERRIER CHRISTMAS

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” With those words the late Andy Williams introduced what would become one of the most famous songs of his career, and created a holiday classic into the bargain. Written for his Christmas 1963 television special, it went on to appear on every one of his holiday shows and albums thereafter.

Television was an ideal medium for Christmas entertainment and the 1960’s and 70’s were the heyday of TV holiday specials. Charlie Brown, Rudolph, Frosty and the Grinch all made their TV debuts back then, and they clearly have no intention of leaving us any time soon.

Sadly the same can’t be said for the live variety specials that also used to air every year. No December was complete without a festive visit from Andy Williams, Perry Como and Bing Crosby; add in the occasional Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra show, and you had hours of the most wonderful seasonal entertainment readily available. Crooners all, they each had a style and sensibility that lent itself to wonderful spectacles of music, dance and the occasional weak attempt at comedy.

There was something about those specials that just radiated Christmas. Sure they could be hokey, with lots of twinkling lights, fake snow, happy family dinners and bizarre guest stars – I for one never believed for a second that David Bowie would drop by Bing Crosby’s house to sing a duet. And for sheer holiday hilarity nothing can top the year Dean Martin performed his opening number with opera great Beverly Sills, country star Mel Tillis, pop singer Andy Gibb and CHIPS actor Erik Estrada.

But these shows were enveloped in the warmth and charm of a perfect Christmas, the kind of holiday we all long for. An unrealistic expectation perhaps, but beloved songs, traditional carols and beautiful arrangements all combined to show us a Christmas we could aspire to.

How sad that by the 1980’s these annual shows had fallen into disfavor, with most networks echoing the sentiment that, “Variety is dead.” Ironic, given the fact that these shows achieved a level of viewership that any network executive would sell their soul to accomplish today.

Perhaps television networks no longer see the value in paying star entertainers to perform. Of course the concept of “star” has changed, with precious few of the celebrities appearing on today’s multitude of reality shows truly qualifying for that title.

Or maybe the mixture of abilities these performers shared, singing, dancing, telling jokes, all performed with a knowing wink that tells us we’re all in on the fun, just seems old fashioned.

Still, New York’s Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular sells out months in advance; Andy Williams’ own 2,000-seat Moon River Theater in Branson, Missouri continues to pack in audiences 7 shows a week for its Christmas show. Clearly it’s television, not the audience, which deserted seasonal variety shows.

For two years I was fortunate to be part of the holiday specials for my friend David Gale’s popular TV series, “Loving Spoonfuls.” As most TV shows are produced months in advance of airing, we shot these shows in the middle of the summer. The audience might have thought it was it was a cold, wintry day but in reality we were sweating in the 35 degree Celsius July heat.

In some small way these episodes made me feel connected to all the wonderful shows that I watched while growing up. I kept hoping that Bob Hope or Jack Benny would walk through the door and join the fun.

Although Christmas music has pretty much been banished from television, radio stations are still awash in holiday songs each December. Unfortunately many modern Christmas songs seem sadly devoid of much joy. Lyrics about dying parents, broken relationships and holiday traffic jams have taken the place of snowfalls, horse-drawn carriages and candlelight. It’s as if “the most wonderful time of the year” has morphed into the most depressing.

I used to think “The Little Drummer Boy” was a sad Christmas song until I heard “The Christmas Shoes,” a morbid ballad about a little boy’s dying mother. It seems we’re no longer dreaming of a White Christmas; we’re now in a contest to see which holiday sentiment can be the most tragic.

Thankfully we live in a time of easy access to virtually every recording and TV show ever produced via CD and DVD, with many just a click away online. Enjoying the songs and specials of Andy, Perry, Bing and so many others couldn’t be simpler, so they can forever remain a joyful part of a Merry Christmas.

Just as Dickens made us all believe in the redemptive magic of the Christmas spirit, those TV specials gave us the hope that in spite of crowded malls, overcooked turkey and soused relatives, maybe a perfect holiday really was within our grasp. They simply made Christmas merrier.

www.randyvancourt.com

A CHRISTMAS REVEILLON

A CHRISTMAS REVEILLON

by A. Lawrence Vaincourt

'Twas the night before Christmas back home on the farm

And the wood stove was roaring to keep the house warm.

Papa in his nightshirt and Maman in her hat

Had just wound up the clock and had put out the cat.

I had turned down the covers and was just sliding under

When someone knocked on the door and it sounded like thunder.

Papa looked out the window and I heard him swear,

Well "Sacre maudit, it's your big brother, Pierre."

"Should we let him in?" he asked of Maman.

"He's carrying gifts and some good whiskey blanc."

She opened the door up, but then Maman said,

"It's very late, Pierre, we're just going to bed."

Well uncle Pierre laughed and he said, "Yes, I know

But it's your turn this year to hold Reveillon.

"We would have held it but our house is small

While your house is big and there's room for us all.

Aunt Denise has the turkey, Maman the tortiere

And you'd better get dressed 'cause they're all coming here."

Well the first to arrive was our fat cousin, Rose

And she kissed all the family before wiping her nose.

She had the twins with her, which was not at all strange,

I could tell by the smell they both needed a change.

Then cousin Jean-Paul, who is just five foot two,

He brought the beer and it was all he could do

To carry two cases from the truck to the door,

He said, "If that's not enough I can go back for more."

Aunt Denise then came in with a turkey so big

That Papa remarked t'was the size of a pig.

She laughed, "We'll have time for some drinking and fun

Then we'll all eat well when the turkey is done."

Theophile had his fiddle, Aunt Claire had some spoons

And we knew we were in or some old-fashioned tunes.

Then came uncle Paul and his daughter, Celine

And I stopped feeling grouchy and started to grin.

She kissed all the family and that was real nice

And I felt pretty good, because me she kissed twice.

Theophile took his fiddle and started a tune

While Aunt Claire joined in with a couple of spoons.

Then uncle Pierre said, "That makes me want to dance,"

So he jumped to his feet and he started to prance.

Uncle Pierre's a big man and he has a large belly

That shook when he danced like a bowl full of jelly.

Then Maman cried out, "You know Pierre, you're not small

And you're shaking the pictures all down off the wall,"

Old Joe, he got drunk (he's the family disgrace)

Sneaked into the kitchen with a grin on his face

And Grandmere remarked, "A good thing I went in

He was basting the turkey with a bottle of gin."

Grandpere was playing with the kids, in the hall,

They were shouting and laughing and having a ball.

They were getting real noisy when I heard Maman yell

"What are you kids up to, what's that awful smell?"

I was going to tell her but before I could start

One kid laughed, "It's Grandpere, he just made a big fart."

It was a fine party, of that there's no doubt,

Because nobody left, although several passed out.

And we sang the old songs that we all knew so well,

We drank and we danced and raised all sorts of Hell.

We ate up the turkey and drank all the beer,

Wished each other "Bonne Fete,"

and said, "We'll see you next year."

And Celine remarked as she gave me a kiss,

"What a shame Les Anglais don't have parties like this."

www.randyvancourt.com

THE CHRISTMAS TREE PAGEANT

In honor of the holiday season, I hope you enjoy one of my father's well-loved Christmas stories.

Whoever was responsible for stoking up the fire in the little church that afternoon had miscalculated. They hadn't taken into account the fact that the church would be packed that night from front to back. As I sat there in my winter clothes, the heat was stifling.

My nostrils were assailed by a variety of scents: candle wax, the odor of kerosene lamps, the spicy smell of the freshly-cut Christmas tree in the corner; the kid on my right had a foot-odor problem which his heavy, woolen socks and winter boots were unable to mask and the elderly lady behind me had overdone it with the cheap perfume. The little boy in the next row had done something unmentionable and now sat, shoulders shaking with silent laughter while the kids on either side leaned as far away as possible.

We kids occupied the front rows, while behind us the church was packed to capacity with parents, grandparents, elder siblings and neighbors. This was "The Christmas Tree," the event for which we had been rehearsing these many weeks. The event that was, to us at least, the most important of the year.

Two little one-room schoolhouses, only a couple of miles apart but separated by the county line, had combined forces and their entire enrollment of 40 or thereabouts had come together at the little church that stood midway between, to provide a Christmas entertainment.

Behind me, the sound of many low voices blended into a wordless hum, reminding me of a hive full of bees; while we kids poked, giggled and did all the other devilment that kids do within the anonymity of a group. Wherever the teachers directed a stern look, the commotion would die down, only to break out at a fresh point.

Finally, a hush fell over the little church. The minister had stepped onto the improvised stage, a paper in his hand. Tonight he would be our Master of Ceremonies. We kids leaned forward expectantly; the show was about to begin. The teachers had done their work well. Every child, from the eldest to the youngest, had one or more parts to perform: a song, a recitation, a part in a skit - perhaps all three. There was a certain rivalry here. We were each of us watching for the kids from the other school to make a mistake.

Starting the show off with the smallest child was probably an error. The first little girl up, a first grader, stood before her audience, head hanging, toes turned in, twisting the front of her skirt, and refused to say a word. From behind the stage curtain, the teacher prompted her first line. The head hung lower, the skirt twisted higher, then suddenly she burst into tears and ran off the stage. The kid with the smelly feet snickered, "I'll bet she wet her pants." The second little girl did better, reciting her lines flawlessly, although with a few lisps and whistles, caused, no doubt, by her lack of two front teeth.

The show went on, some kids performing well, others poorly. The church organist accompanied the singing on the church's little foot-powered organ. She sat at the organ, back ramrod straight, hair drawn back in a severe bun, hat held atop it by a large hatpin; she could have been a model for a Norman Rockwell painting.

The asthmatic wheezing of the organ's bellows provided a counterpoint to the music and also much merriment to us kids. It was discovered at the last moment that both schools planned to sing "Away in a Manger," so it was decided that we would do it together - the end result was slightly less than melodic.

Finally we kids were finished. Now, we sat back to enjoy the performance of the older teenagers and the adults. A tall young man, who was later to become a lifelong friend of mine, played his guitar and sang. My stepfather brought a roar of laughter when, at a point in the script where he was supposed to wipe his fountain pen on his handkerchief, he hauled an indescribably filthy bandana from his pocket and adlibbed to the audience, "Maw didn't know I had this."

The show was winding down now and we were waiting for the big event of the evening - the arrival of Santa Claus. Just prior to this event each year, a half dozen men at the back of the church would slip quietly out the door, while everyone's attention was fixed upon the stage. When Santa arrived a few moments later, we were never quite certain whose father or brother was beneath that red suit and all the padding. Nor were we ever certain whether it was true that Santa Claus was usually fortified with a couple of pulls from a bottle before making his entrance.

That night as applause for the last performance died down, we heard the jingle of sleigh bells outside and we swiveled round in our seats. The doors burst open with a crash and Santa, bag over his shoulder, came bounding down the aisle with a resounding HO, HO, HO. Had the pull from the bottle affected his judgement? Did the bag over his shoulder upset his balance? We will never know the reason, but as Santa attempted to gain the stage with one great leap, his foot hit the edge and he rebounded from it and landed on his back, with a crash that shook the little church.

The smaller children looked on in horror and we older ones howled with uncontrollable laughter. The minister and one teacher rushed forward and helped Santa to his feet. Apparently unhurt, he went about his duties of unloading the Christmas tree and presenting the gifts to the children. Then wishing us all a Merry Christmas, he left in a more sedate manner.

That night, as we gathered after the show in groups, the white expanse of the little churchyard, surrounded by snowladen evergreens and lit by a brilliant full moon, looked like a picture on a Christmas card. Young people slipped off quietly to dark spots, in pairs. Our elders went about shaking hands and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. We kids gathered together, arguing loudly as to whose father it had been inside the Santa Claus costume. I took no part in the discussion, although I knew whose father I had seen rubbing his backside tenderly, when he thought no one was looking.

www.randyvancourt.com
 

THE TURKEY TRAGEDY

Of all the months in the calendar December has always been my favourite. As a child it meant the imminent arrival of absolutely the best day of the year: Christmas Day. I don’t remember how old I was when I first became aware of Christmas but I certainly recall my initial amazement at discovering that presents had somehow magically arrived as I slept.

I was so taken with this marvel that every morning for the next few weeks I would wake up and tiptoe into our living room, cautiously optimistic that whatever magic had worked this miracle during the early hours of December 25th would somehow repeat itself.

Each Christmas of my childhood came replete with its unique memories and anecdotes. The year our youngest brother was no more than 4 and decided to give us each the only present he could afford: a box of Chiclets. Or the year our dog apparently thought, “What a fabulous convenience! An indoor tree!” Thank goodness for store exchange policies or I never would have been able to wear that sweater from Mom.

Of all those holidays at home though, the one that immediately springs to mind was the year of the great “Turkey Tragedy.” As she had done so many times before, our mother purchased a huge, plump bird several weeks in advance and put it away carefully in the freezer. On Christmas Eve it was removed and allowed to defrost in anticipation of its ultimate roasting the next day.

First thing Christmas morning it was lovingly stuffed, seasoned and put into the oven. Ah, the aromas that we anticipated – the mouthwatering succulence of that first slice danced in our heads. Just like the goose eventually enjoyed by the Cratchit family in “A Christmas Carol,” our turkey would be something to remember for months to come. Off we went to frolic in the Christmas snow in joyful anticipation of our coming feast.

Now I may be wrong, but I don’t believe the overwhelming stench that greeted our noses upon returning from a walk in the crisp winter air was ever mentioned in Mr. Dickens’ book. At first we hoped that perhaps something had just fallen on the element inside the oven and the smell would soon vanish. Hours passed but no amount of evergreen, peppermint stick or wishful thinking could conceal the unfortunate truth that something was terribly wrong with Mr. Turkey.

We carefully extracted him from the oven, lifted the lid off the pan and tried in vain not to gag. Delicately a slice was cut off one side and offered up as a holiday treat to our dog, who took one sniff and refused to touch it. Undaunted (what do dogs know?) we cut off two more pieces and my father and I did what even the dog had the good sense not to do – we tasted the turkey.

Now nothing would give me greater joy than to tell you of the Christmas miracle that happened next; that the turkey was delicious and we all sat around the dinner table popping Christmas crackers and toasting the holiday. The unfortunate truth is the turkey was so rancid we had to throw it away, and Dad and I spent an hour driving around town trying to find an open store to buy something else for dinner.

At the beginning of “A Christmas Carol” we are supposed to feel pity for the Cratchit family because they have just a small goose to feed their household on Christmas Day. If only we had been so fortunate as to have that pathetic little bird on our table! It would have seemed like a feast compared to the one pound of sliced turkey loaf we eventually scrounged up to go along with our mashed potatoes and canned gravy that day.

Ultimately it didn’t matter; in fact it’s given us yet another story to tell every Christmas at the dinner table. For as we all know the holiday is about more than just a delicious dinner. It’s so easy to get caught up in all the rush and festivities that sometimes it’s a good idea to take a moment and recall the simplicity of the original event that inspired it all.

As long as you have friends and family gathered together in good cheer, nothing else is really important. But you might want to take a holiday tip from my mother who now keeps a backup roast in the freezer…just in case.

www.randyvancourt.com