It was a rule that Mom lived by: All the Christmas decorations had to be up by December first. I don’t know what happened this particular year. Maybe the month of November was a little crazy, but the decorations weren’t up and she was even behind on her Christmas baking. We were days away from Christmas. I could tell her spirits were down.

I don’t remember the year, or even how old I was on that beautiful day, but I do know it was before I was married. I was somewhere in my twenties. It was during the time that my mom still hosted our Christmas celebration on the eve, before the weddings and the children. Our Christmas eve celebrations started after we got home from the eight o’clock children’s service at church, and went on into the early hours of Christmas morning.

Like all winters in Canada, it was cold and windy. This particular year, we had not yet seen any snow, at least anything that stayed. Dinner was done, the table cleared and my brothers had already gone out for the evening. My dad, as per his usual, had disappeared into his workshop. My mom was feeling overwhelmed. She was in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking her evening cup of hot water.

“So when are you planning on putting up the decorations mom?” I stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

She looked up at me, and I could see the fatigue in her eyes. I smiled. I didn’t have any plans and I wasn’t tired yet.

“Let me get the boxes down. What do you say we start getting the decorations up? I am sure that between the two of us, we can get it done in no time.”

I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I was feeling the spirit missing from the house too. My dad helped me get all the old Rothman boxes down from the attic. He worked there for years and often would bring home the boxes that the cigarette cartons were shipped in. We used these boxes for storage all the time.

My mom loved Christmas, and as a result there were a lot of boxes as she had amassed a large collection of decorations over the years. Some new, some hand made, and some that she had simply had since she was first married. She had decorations for almost every room. The living room, hall, kitchen and even the bathroom. It was a tedious procedure to take down all the existing trinkets, safely put them away and search out the replacing Christmas ones. One by one, we unpacked all the decorations. They were scattered everywhere, on every table top, all over the floor. For hours we walked around in a maze of Christmas color.

Of course, no decorating would be complete without Mireille Mathieu caroling French Christmas songs. The house was really quiet while we went about our business. We belted out with Mireille when we remembered the words. XX WAS OUR FAVOURITE We shook our booties to a tune or two, and reminisced about Christmas’s past.

All through our childhood years, my parents would give me and my two brothers one big gift. The one I remember the most was the bowling alley game. It was huge and we spent countless hours playing. We giggled over the year they bought us toboggans and my brothers fought over one of them. We have the red faced picture to prove it! My mom cursed the year they bought us an Intellivision. We were the first in the neighborhood to have a gaming system, and so the neighborhood ended up at our place all the time.

My mom’s love of the season was evident as she shared her childhood Christmases with me. She had thirteen siblings growing up, and Christmas was a time for all of them to gather as a family . She lovingly recalled the laughter, the food and the love that they all shared.

Although our family was tiny in comparison, we certainly did not lack in laughter and love. Where the food was concerned, my mom always served the traditional food for a typical French Canadian family. At midnight, we were invited to come into the kitchen where she would have spread out the food on the kitchen table. Meat pies, creamy coleslaw salad, little breads and sandwich meat. There was always enough food to carry us through the night.

By the time my mom served the food, we would have already been drinking for quite a while and had built up quite the appetite! After the meal was done, it was time for the desserts. Sometimes, we were even honored with a Grand-Pere which is a traditional French Canadian dessert made with maple syrup and dough. To this day, even our children ask for it. She would set out her apple, raisin and sugar pies. Add to it a little french vanilla ice cream and the sugar rush was on! There was always a myriad of other desserts like dominoes, fudge and chocolate chip cookies. Having made these much in advance of Christmas, she would lock them in the freezer to ensure enough supply for Christmas.

I try to live up to her baking, having taken over the donut making, but have not yet dared tried to make the pies. I was always in awe of how she managed all this while working full-time and taking care of us.
My mom grew up during the depression; they didn’t have much and she always expressed that she wanted to give us more. It wasn’t about money but about memories. It’s all you have in the end. It’s what you cherish the most, and her Christmas Eve celebrations were memorable.

As we passed the evening sharing stories, singing and dancing, the house slowly began to transform. It had started snowing outside, it was starting to feel like Christmas. Our spirits were lifting, and the joy of Christmas started to fill our heart’s. There was no concept of time at all, it was just us.

Every shelf, now held a Christmas decoration. The pictures on the walls were replaced with one
decoration or another. From the front door to the kitchen, the color of Christmas was abundant. It was early morning when we finally made our way into the living room and started putting up the tree.

Over the years, my mom had built up quite the collection of ceramic houses that she used to create a village under the tree. When she ran out of room under the tree, she extended out along the wall to the next piece of furniture which happened to be the television cabinet. On top of that, she would place her manger scene with little Jesus. Growing up, she had this tiny little plastic set with Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the wise kings and all the animals. Later, one of her sisters made her a large one in ceramic, all hand painted.It was stunning.

Before placing the manger, she would cover the top of the stand with the fake snow and had these two large caroler dolls with candle shaped lights that she would place on each side of the manger scene. The energy in the house was shifting.

If we had been tired before, the fatigue had long ago vanished. The stories had gone quiet now,
replaced with whispered chat about where to place things. It was four o’clock in the morning. My mom was putting the final decorations up on the tree while I sat taking a break. I remember watching her. Seeing her. As she reached up to place one of her cherished decorations and stood back admiring her tree she quietly said, “You know, it seems like yesterday I was decorating our tree with my mom, and now here I am with my own daughter creating the same memories.”
“I love you so much, Mom.”

It was at that very moment I looked at the woman who had given birth to me. She raised me to be the woman that I am today. All at once I was witness to her amazing strength and her weaknesses, her successes and failures. Her fears, hopes and dreams. In this one incredible night my mother showed me what it was to be strong and vulnerable, to love, to be compassionate and empathetic. To live with hopes and dreams, despite your fears. She showed me how to be a mom. The admiration, pride and love for that woman coursing through me at that moment was uncontainable—tears fell down my cheeks. I hugged my mom that night. I hugged her tightly by the lights of the Christmas tree. We stood there holding hands appreciating the work we had accomplished.

Although I took over the family Christmas celebrations years ago, the village was always missing from my home. I never had the space. This year, I found the perfect place to build my own little village. As I pulled each ceramic house from its box, I reminisced about Christmas’s past, the joys and laughter.

This year I am about to celebrate my first Christmas without her. Despite that, I never had the space to build a village in my home until this year. The village was always missing but this year, I was
determined to make room. Maybe it was for the child in me, the memories and emotions it brings. Maybe it was to honor the spirit of this beautiful woman who helped create and shape
the woman I am today.

It is a labor of love as the sorrow of my loss swims in the joy of the traditions she helped create and
instill in me. It is a process of healing as the mixed tears stream down my cheeks. I too love Christmas, and plan with every ounce of my being to continue the traditions. To maybe one day be the one sitting with my daughter in the wee hours of the morning decorating our home in preparation for the family. As long as I continue the traditions, and as long as I share the stories, she never really dies. So for now, I just want to sit with my memories of my mom and enjoy what she loved most of the season.