This simple yet remarkable true Christmas story from the foothills of the Canadian Rockies will lift your spirit and warm your heart.
The aromatic promise of an epic Christmas dinner filled our farmhouse. Mom wrestled an enormous homegrown turkey from the oven of the wood cookstove and set it on the sideboard.
My sister Shirley mashed potatoes while Granny strained green peas we’d picked and frozen the previous summer.
Making the gravy came next.
“Will Gregor come?” I asked. Never looking up, Mom continued stirring.
“I’m not sure, but he knows we eat at 12:30,” she replied.
“Will we wait dinner for him?” I asked.
“No, but set his place at the table.”
Christmas dinner was festive
We had put the leaf in the kitchen table, which signaled a special family event. It was spread with an oversized, starched tablecloth that was stored in the drawer of the high dresser upstairs.
We’d all be together and have plenty of elbowroom to savor our Christmas feast.
After finishing my job of laying out the cutlery, I double-checked to ensure that Daddy’s favorite knife was set at his place at the head of the table. Then I turned to face the south kitchen window, searching the snow-covered hills for a glimpse of Gregor Ross, our old bachelor friend and neighbor.
If he were coming to Christmas dinner, as he had done all the years I could remember, Gregor wouldn’t drive. He would walk three miles cross-country from his small wooden shack, no matter how deep the snow or how high the drifts.
Gregor came into view
“I see him!” I cried.
Gregor, a tall, lean, solitary figure hunched over in the freezing temperatures, came into view on the brow of the hill above the snow-covered potato patch. With long, purposeful strides, he walked an imaginary straight line down the hill toward our house.
“Let’s start putting the food on the table,” Mom said. “Call your father and the boys. Bobby and Arthur were famished an hour ago.”
“We can eat as soon as Gregor gets here.”
Mom placed the only package left under the Christmas tree beside Gregor’s plate.
Such a fuss over socks
I didn’t have to guess. I knew Gregor’s present was a pair of heavy gray wool socks, the kind all the farmers wore. It was the same gift Gregor had received the previous year, the year before that and the year before that.
Nevertheless, the socks always seemed to give Gregor a great deal of pleasure. He would smile and in his deep voice that was sometimes difficult to understand, he would softly thank us all, looking down at his dinner plate.
The socks probably were the only Christmas gift he received.
I took Gregor’s presence at our Christmas table and many times for dinner on Sundays for granted. A quiet man, who smoked cigarettes outdoors that he rolled himself, Gregor didn’t spread gossip. He kept his peace.
A man of few words
Daddy used to say that if we kids never learned anything good from Gregor, we never learned anything bad either. Gregor acted unfailingly like a gentleman going from farm to farm wherever he was needed. He helped with chores here, sawed firewood there, put in a crop here or build a fence there.
On Christmas Day though, it was to our place that he gravitated. He sensed how sincerely welcome he was.
When Gregor didn’t come for dinner one Christmas, we wondered where he had gone. Mom set his present aside hoping Gregor would knock on our back porch door early in the New Year.
Several weeks later, we heard the tragic news; Gregor had died suddenly while visiting friends in British Columbia.
Our family missed Gregor, especially on Christmas Day, and we never forgot him.
* * *
Sharing a confidence
A number of decades later, I stood at the kitchen table, cutting up pan after pan of Mom’s legendary homemade fudge and puff wheat candy. She instructed me to fill a mountain of recycled card, cracker and wafer boxes with her homemade treats for family, friends, the minister and the mailman.
“But make sure there’s a couple of extra boxes in case someone drops by,” she said.
The faithful old mantle clock struck the hour. In the firebox of the old white cookstove, logs of poplar wood crackled as they burned down. On the top of the stove chicken mash bubbled next to a simmering pot of hearty soup.
It was peaceful in the heart of my old home and Mom and I were good companions.
Between sips of hot tea colored with a drop of cream from a Blue Willow china cup, Mom broke the silence.
“I’ve never liked Christmas,” she volunteered, gazing off.
Surely I had heard wrong
Never liked Christmas? My mother? How could this be?
Mom always had made sure Christmas was a wonderful celebration for our family.
For decades, she had raised a flock of turkeys to sell at Christmas to augment the cream money that she and Daddy earned from milking cows.
December to earn money for a few Christmas gifts and treats.
We knew the Christmas story by heart and celebrated the holiday season not only with gifts and food, but also by reaching out to others, especially the elderly and those experiencing hard times.
I swallowed my disbelief long enough for Mom to tell me her story.
The saddest of Decembers
Mom was 13 years old when my grandfather died from throat cancer on December 14, 1924. In those days, medical expenses were entirely the family’s responsibility. Virtually everything that the small family had was sold to pay the doctor who could offer little help beyond supplying doses of morphine.
Because the weather was so cold, the funeral had to be delayed several days until the grave could be dug in the cemetery at Okotoks, Alberta. Finally, on December 18, my grandfather was laid to rest in temperatures that measured minus 48 degrees F (minus 44 degrees C) with the wind chill.
The Anglican minister officiating at the service received special permission from the bishop in Calgary to wear a skullcap. Otherwise, his bare head surely would have been frostbitten that day at the windswept cemetery.
Mom recalled that her father’s friends pushed their hats back in respect but couldn’t remove them because of the savage cold.
A sad, sad memory
Mom never forgot that dreadful day.
Not only had Granny and my Mom lost a beloved husband and father, but they were destitute. Their only living family members were half a world away in England, my grandparents’ homeland.
Granny took the first job she was offered as a live-in housekeeper/cook for a well-to-do Okotoks family. They weren’t happy that Mom came as part of the bargain.
On December 25, Granny dutifully cooked a fine traditional Christmas dinner. However, she and Mom were not asked to share it with the family.
No Christmas spirit
After Granny served the meal, she went back to the kitchen and took off her apron. She and Mom put on their coats and walked out the back door to the nearby home of another widow who had a special-needs son.
“Come in Mrs. Fendall, come in Cecilia. I’m so glad you are here. I know you don’t have much time. I will get dinner on the table right away,” the Good Samaritan said. She offered food, as well as understanding, and temporary refuge.
Too soon, Granny had to return and clear the dirty dishes from her employer’s Christmas dinner table.
Could things get worse?
Granny’s working situation didn’t improve in the new year. When a family friend saw Mom on North Railway Street a few days later, he bent over and hugged her.
“Cecilia, how are you? How is your mother?”
Mom couldn’t speak because of the huge lump in her throat. Staring down at her boots, she shook her head. James Bullivant, a father himself, grasped the situation from the pain written on the little girl’s face.
“Come with me,” he said, turning toward his wagon. He lifted Mom up onto the seat, climbed up and flicked the reins on the horses’ harness.
“Let’s go and see your mother.”
A decision reached
The man and child went quietly to the back door of Granny’s place of employment, where she was hard at work in the kitchen. After a few words were exchanged, the child and the caring man returned to his wagon. He carried a scuffed portmanteau filled with Mom’s clothes, her books and a doll.
“You’ll stay with us for a while, Cecilia. Things will get better. You’ll see,” he said.
The New Year proved as bleak as the day of the funeral. Granny mourned both the loss of Grandpa and her inability to provide a satisfactory home for her only child. The horror of having been orphaned herself at Cecilia’s age haunted Granny day and night.
A ray of hope
It came as a great relief when a Scotsman from the foothills near DeWinton, sent word that he wanted to hire a housekeeper/cook.
Was Granny interested in working for the bachelor?
Of course, Mom would be welcome at Dave Wylie’s farm, too. Granny was indeed interested, but conventions had to be considered.
She wrote a letter asking the World War I veteran’s elderly mother for permission to accept the job. By return mail, the dear lady responded that it would be the best thing for both of them.
Thus, Granny quit her job in Okotoks. She and Mom packed up and went to live with Dave, whom Granny married some years later.
Life goes on
While it was a good, safe home, it could never replace the one Mom had known with her mother and dad.
Years later, Mom married my father and in due course, we four children were born. Our family lived on the farm that my maternal grandparents had bought in the foothills west of Okotoks in 1918.
Although it was a good life, it required hard physical labor and money was scarce. Over the years, we also endured disappointments, losses and several debilitating physical injuries.
Yet, Mom set the example for weathering the various storms. She always found peace and savored small pleasures.
Her burdens were softened by her faith and a loving family.
Extending love to one and all
Mom drew comfort from the kindness of some while shrugging off the callousness of others just as she had during that terrible Christmastime after her father died.
Rather than crusted with bitterness, Mom’s heart was etched with generosity and love.
Isn’t it ironic that Mom should die on a Christmas Eve? The date was December 24, 2002.
That old farm in the foothills is still in our family. The Alberta Century Farm and Ranch Award it received in 2018 is a testament to the courage and determination of our parents and maternal grandparents. They all would share our pride in this recognition, but none more so than Mom.
* * *
Merry Christmas to all my wonderful readers. Thank you for the privilege of sharing my stories with you.
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Perfect!
Thanks, Deb! A little more on the back story; when my grandfather was diagnosed with throat cancer the family was living on a farm in the hills west of Okotoks that they’d purchased in 1918. They’d already lost half of the acreage when they couldn’t pay the mortgage. When the taxes came due on the remaining quarter section the year after my grandfather’s death, there was no money to pay them.
Mom wrote to two elderly well-to-do great-aunts in England whom she had corresponded with begging for help. Although they had never approved of Grandpa Fendall marrying a woman from ‘the working class,’ they took pity on Mom and sent the money to settle the taxes. Mom’s courageous act for a 13-year-old is the reason why that land is still in our family today.
That is an amazing story! God has a plan and it is always for our best! Your mom was an integral part of His plan for the family heritage. I am so glad you have recorded all those special memories.
Thank you, Deb. Yes, I believe you are correct. God has a plan!
Perfect Christmas memory, beautifully written, touchingly told. Merry Christmas to you and Emil.
Thank you, Margo. How I wish I could pull up a chair at Mom’s kitchen table and visit with her once more as I cut up her pans of fudge. Precious memories! Merry Christmas to you in Mexico!
So touching, Elaine. Very Merry Christmas to you!
And Merry Christmas to you, Elinor. Our Canadian ancestors were made of good stuff, weren’t they?
Loved this story. Cried but totally normal for me. My MawmawHen died today in 1962. Very sad as she chose the end. Christmas time was very different for my mom and her sisters after that year. I remember having Christmas in my MawmawHen’s house that Christmas. I was seven and it seemed funny to be there without her. I now know it was to divide her possessions. You are so special. Your stories are written to where the reader cannot stop reading. May you and your family have a joy filled Christmas and we all have a safer New Year.
I am glad my Christmas story touched your heart, Gesine. I can imagine your confusion at the age of seven at being at your beloved grandmother’s home and her not being there. I can tell that memory has stayed with you and still tugs at your heart. Your response to your loss at Christmastime reminds me of my Mom. Like her, you seek to lift the spirits of others as you celebrate the birth of Christ each year. Thank you for sharing your memory.
What a beautifully written story – a very poignant memory of times past! I so enjoy all of your stories that often help me conjure up memories of my own. Blessings to you and your family for a wonderful Christmas and a healthy Happy New Year!
Thank you, Carolyn. So happy that my memories remind you of your beloved family members. I wish you and yours a blessed Christmas, as well, and a COVID-free New Year!
Beautiful story, Elaine! Merry Christmas!
Thank you, Tracy. From a skilled writer like you, that’s a wonderful compliment! Merry Christmas to you, as well.
Both beautiful and poignant.🥲
Merry Christmas to you and yours, Elaine.🎄
Thank you for your good wishes, Rhonda, and a very blessed Christmas to you and yours, as well!
Elaine, I loved reading your family’s stories. It is so wonderful that you can preserve your family’s memories in the written word so that all of us can enjoy reading about them. Your stories remind us all that family life is not always picture perfect and that although there is tragedy and struggles, having a strong spirit as your family did got them through. How proud they would have been of the person you are! May you and your family have a Merry Christmas and a Wonderful New Year!
Michelle, thank you so much for your kind words. As I write memories about my family in Canada, I am often reminded of the stories I’ve heard from senior citizens here in Central Texas. Although there are a lot of miles between La Grange, Texas, and Okotoks, Alberta, the tough pioneer spirit of our respective forebears is so very similar. I think those oldtimers from Texas and Alberta would have liked to sit down for a visit because they had so much in common!
I recall this story from your book! Thank you for sharing it again. Reading it reminded me of when my father’s friend would have a standing invitation to join us for Christmas Eve dinner. After he passed away, it was never the same without him.
Yes, Anne, I thought this was an appropriate time to retell this story, especially since I have beautiful new illustrations painted by Mady Thiel-Kopstein of Turner Valley, AB. It’s interesting that your family, too, had a family friend who was an integral part of your childhood Christmas Eve celebrations. Perhaps that is one way our parents taught us empathy.
Thank you for your beautiful, yet sad memories of Christmas in Canada. You have such skill in writing exactly how you felt at those poignant moments that I can feel those feelings myself when I read them. It is a beautiful gift that you have and we are the lucky readers who can enjoy and benefit from them. Thanks again, Elaine.
Barbara, when I look at the terrible Christmas that Granny and Mom suffered through after my grandfather’s death, I am filled with pride at their resilience and faith. It is very, very heartwarming for me to know that you enjoy my stories. Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. Merry Christmas!
Thank you for sharing that touching story with us. I’ve never felt the same at Christmas since my mother died. We could always count on having a traditional Christmas gathering with the family at her house. Now, Christmas plans change from year to year, and I never know what family get-togethers, if any, will happen. I miss the certainty and comfort of the old days.
Plans to celebrate Christmas – or lack thereof this year – certainly leave us hankering for a time when we knew where we were expected at Christmas. Maybe it’s high time to create new Christmas traditions in 2021!
One of the nicest Christmas dinners I can remember was about 8 or 9 years ago when my Aunt Caroline and I issued an open invitation to whoever was interested to come eat with us at the church. We didn’t ask anyone to bring anything, but of course they all did, so we had quite a feast. I think about 30 people came.
That’d be a fun tradition to start.
What a great idea! Sometimes the most successful gatherings are those that speak to the heart rather than being planned to the ‘nth’ degree! Hope you have a beautiful Christmas, Liz.
Thank you for blessing our Christmas with beautiful memories and shared stories! Praying for a much better 2021 for everyone!
Yes, the new year looks especially inviting after 2020! I’m grateful you enjoyed Christmas in Her Heart.
A beautiful memory of heartbreak and courage! I’m in tears. Thanks so much for blessing us all with your memories.
It does my heart good to know that you were touched by this Christmas story, Darlene. I bet every family has those heroes or heroines in their ancestry who made it through difficult times with boundless courage and deep faith. It’s one of the reasons family history is so interesting! Thank you for writing!
I’ve read every message shared by your readers and your responses. A tribute and validation to you and your God given gift. This has been a tough year for much of the world, perhaps with the complexity of our Political circumstances, our America has had twin issues to deal with. But, as with your ancestors and those of your readers and Texas neighbors, we will rise with the difficulties and meet the challenges. It is in our blood, in our souls. It is who we are.
Your stories help keep us human, reminding us that times change, lifestyles evolve and all things sometimes seem new and foreign to us. But, what remains unchanged and rock solid is who we are. Our ancestors passed a core strength to us. We all descend from pioneers, transplants, seekers and adventurers. We carry them and their values into the future.
So, while we gather virtually this year, perhaps around a Portal-Facebook or Zoom or a multi-family conference call, we carry on the tradition of family & friends, relatives, and strangers. We carry it into a future built of our designs and values and know that those who gave us this strength are observing and approve
“When Contentment is the Theme, Life’s Melody is Sweet.”
Thank you, sweet lady.
Jeanie, I agree that our ancestors passed along core strengths to us, along with perhaps some physical and character traits! Faith, family, friends, courage, strength and resiliency saw them through tough times, as it does us. Perhaps kindness and understanding are other attributes that help people cope because kindness begets more kindness and understanding grows from empathy and listening. Thank you for your wise and comforting words! My very best to you and yours for Christmas and 2021.
What a beautiful, although, sad Christmas memory. I felt that I was with your mom sharing her trials. Your mom and grandmother were truly courageous hardworking ladies.
So glad the farm was saved.
God Bless you and your family and Merry Christmas to all.
My mom and grandmother were, indeed, courageous hardworking women. They were also ladies. I never remember Granny ever using a bad word, although she would say she was ‘vexed’ and sometimes wanted to ‘throw something down the hill’ at her little house. Mom’s response to good and bad news was “Well, for goodness sake.” If “for goodness sake” had an exclamation mark after it, we sat up straight because we knew she wasn’t pleased! Good memories, Donna. Thanks for writing!
Beautiful. My mom passed the day after Christmas, so I very much related to this.
Thinking of you today, Glynis, as you remember your mother. I know it must be a bittersweet day for you every year. Hugs!