Charlottetown Christmas

My dear Cove friend and neighbour Kay lived in Charlottetown in the 1950s and ‘60s and shared these thoughts with me.

We lived in a lovely old house on Hillsborough Street right in the middle of the block. Our huge backyard served as a local playground. Dad was a mechanic and once brought home a real airplane and parked it in back. We’d slide down the wings, scramble into the cockpit—kids could do anything those days, climb trees, balance on fences, nobody was watching them every minute.

Week’s Grocery was at the corner of the block and Mill’s Meat Market was right across the street. We didn’t have a car but there were half a dozen grocery stores nearby so it was no trouble getting what we needed. Since we didn’t have a fridge, Mom would give me a list and I’d run across to Mill’s for a piece of meat. Mom was a good cook and did a lovely roast of pork with a thick crust on top, like candy. 

Dad died when I was six years old. Some of our relatives wanted to adopt me and my little brother and sister, but my oldest sister wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she and the other siblings went to work, one at Canada Packers, two at Sterns Laundry, and one at Shama’s Grocery. 

Christmas was different after Dad died, but it was still wonderful. Canada Packers gave toys (not what we wanted, but nice things) to children of needy families. (I guess that would be us, although I never felt poor.) They also distributed huge hampers full of olives, nuts, canned ham, jams, chutney, all tightly packed in straw. Sterns Laundry gave us toys too. And Dad’s brother in England and his wife sent a box of knitted caps, mittens, books, and long jewel-coloured candies with gel centres.

Christmas morning big wool stockings would be laid out on the couch, with a fat orange bulging in the toe of each. We’d pull things out and look at them, before running off to mass at the Basilica where ceremonies were still performed in Latin. Then it was home on the run to gobble down breakfast: “Come on Mom, hurry!” We were dying to get at the presents under the tree… that we’d finally get to open, one at a time, respectfully, joyfully, not in a hurry any more. 

In the afternoon when we were all played out, it was time for our Christmas feast. Mom would’ve started roasting the goose hours ago, with stuffing made of bread, potatoes, bacon fat, onions and summer savory. We’d all line up and help ourselves to juicy brown goose meat, boiled potatoes, gravy, mashed turnip and carrots, pickles and bread, followed by mincemeat pie, plum pudding and Mom’s almond icebox cookies, my favourite. 

After dinner we’d relax in the living room and play Blind Man’s Bluff, listen to Christmas songs on the radio, or we’d say to my sister Elaine, “Tell us a ghost story!” We’d call them ghost stories but they weren’t horror, just suspenseful. 

Our Christmas wasn’t what you’d call “High Tech” but it suited us just fine. To this day I associate Christmas not with fancy decorations and presents, but with the smell of Mom’s almond cookies. I hope my own family feels the same way.

FYI Update on last month’s Cove Journal chestnut soap experiment:
The chestnut soap bar was unsuccessful, but the liquid makes a nice addition to dish soap and is especially good for polishing around taps.