I always seemed to have a set agenda for the holiday season. As a child, the anticipation for Christmas would begin when my mother announced our annual shopping trip to downtown Winnipeg. This wasn’t just a day for her to run errands in commerce, this was THE day I would get a moment with Santa to implore how deserving I was to receive the fad toy of the day. This social contract I had with the man to not drive my parents crazy throughout the previous year was beneficial for everyone and even though I always stuck by it, my tiny heart would palpitate with excitement and nerves on the long bus ride over. Perhaps it was early-onset imposter syndrome but I seemed to always second-guess myself, without reason to. Occasionally still do.
And it wasn’t just a regular mall Santa; the Santa I visited at Eaton’s Department Store was held in his own enchanting world - a makeshift Victorian-era township for visitors to wind through where each storefront window provided glimpse into a magical fairytale vignette from Humpty Dumpty to Cinderella. I’m sure the animatronic characters are much better preserved in my memory than they were in reality, but as a child this day felt like visiting DisneyWorld and is a beloved shared experience amongst so many from my hometown. It definitely got me into the spirit of the season. After visiting ol’ St. Nick, the day would end with my mother hitting up her favourite bakery and buying a dozen Italian tri-colour cookies for us to indulge in. To this day, my favourite dessert.
The older I got, the more my holiday memories centered on family and food culminating in a grand feast at a relative’s house that occasionally veered Griswold-esque. Afterwards as we would crosstown back home, I would always ask my father to drive through the downtown core so that I could marvel at the colourful decorative lights glowing softly against the quiet, snowy streets. It was rare the occasion that we would be downtown after-hours; staring out the window, I would marvel at this festive world just frozen in time. I imagined the varied holiday rituals that were happening within the illuminated windows we passed. For those that were dark, I hoped the occupants felt some sense of belonging.
In recent years, that circle has become even smaller as I typically spend the return to Manitoba with just my mom and wee dog Monty, who provides her company as a sort of unlicensed therapy dog (a role he was born to do). It’s intimate and private. Our walks at the ebb of the day are a highlight. I like watching the gradient of pink to violet reflected on the snowbanks as the sun sets over the horizon. As an adult, it is the calm I covet. December 25 is still reserved for opening gifts and indulging in turkey, although I’m not concerned with what I get and more focused on seeing joy on my mother’s face. Her memory has been fading but she still misses her late husband (my father). A slight trigger can still turn this joyous occasion into one of pangs of heartbreak over the loss. I’m always glad to be there to provide presence on what was, what is and what will be.
While this holiday season certainly felt different, it was special in its own way. I wasn’t “adventuring” with my dog in the prairie fields surrounding my childhood home but I did take time to explore the quiet urban streets of my own neighbourhood and was met with the same solitude. I didn’t relish a turkey dinner my mom spent hours of time and love creating but I did hold a savoury fusion feast for my partner and I. Gifts weren’t exchanged but memories of time and touch and conversation shared. When I’m older and reflecting on this (thus far) nine month period of solitude of my life, I don’t think it will feel like a waste; rather, the cocooning will probably be appreciated for not only helping to stay healthy and safe through a global pandemic but also for allowing my perspective to shift even further in terms of simple pleasures and the social contract I acknowledge to live in a society in order to enjoy them.
