Copyright thestar
There’s a little stuffed reindeer sitting next to me as I write this. She’s nothing much, a fuzzy brown stuffy that squeaks when you squeeze her. She has been my workmate since mid-July. I haven’t had the will to put her out in the shed with the other Christmas decorations, so she hangs out with me in my home office, waiting for showtime in December. Why the odd co-worker? It’s a bit of a story. I started life as a farm kid. My father raised hogs, and my mom raised three kids, on 150 acres in the middle of God’s country north of London. It was a hard-working but idyllic life; my memories are warm and slightly blurry, like faded pictures in the family photo albums. Idyllic until a summer day when a driver ran a stop sign on a backcountry road, and suddenly my mom found herself a single parent in charge of a farm, a barnful of pigs and three grieving kids. After that, things changed — a sold farm, a rented home in town, Mom supply teaching at the local elementary school. Eventually she remarried, creating a joint family that got us up to 10 people in total, all getting by on a self-employed drywaller’s earnings. It’s funny how you don’t understand your childhood until you’re an adult. For instance, money was vice-tight from then on, I just didn’t realize it. I only knew that my back-to-school clothes were from the discount chain BiWay, Zellers being too upscale. Dinner was a fresh meal, then leftovers, then the same thing topped with Corn Flakes and called “casserole.” In adulthood, I chat with friends from different backgrounds and it all becomes clear. “Oh, your March break was a ski trip and summer included two weeks in Europe? See, for me, March break was hanging out at home, and summer was … it was also hanging out at home, until I was old enough to go to work berry-picking.” This is especially true of Christmas. It wasn’t until my 30s that I realized some people actually got what was on their Christmas list. For me, that part of the holidays meant going through the massive Eatons Christmas catalogue and jotting down items that one might theoretically get, but only in a perfect world. My letter to Santa was a thought experiment, not an instruction manual. But it didn’t matter — opening any presents on Christmas morning meant that the big guy had remembered you, that you were part of the magic. The thing is, though, money being tight didn’t diminish the spirit of Christmas. It might have been the opposite. Year ‘round, Mom’s heart was like the holidays, set naturally to giving and hope, so this was her time to shine. When she was a schoolteacher, she’d bring her father (in the role of Santa) and her sister (playing an elf) into her classroom to entertain the kids. As a parent, she’d fill the house with shortbread cookies, holiday songs and warmth. We’d paint the windows, decorate the tree and put up the Nativity scene. She overstuffed every December with holiday spirit. I can’t lie — presents were nice. There were times when the Santa list was checked off. As an adult, I realize what went into those extra-special gifts: the off-brand boom box so similar to the upscale one I’d put on my list that she must have scoured the stores for deals; a rare bit of designer clothing that must have taken months of pinching pennies. As Mom grew older, her world grew smaller, as happens to us all. She moved from the family home to an apartment, then an assisted living facility. Her husband passed, and the stuff of her life — the furniture, the kitchenware, the household tools — gradually found other homes. But she kept her Christmas decorations. A wreath to hang on her front door. A decorative tree with winter lights to sparkle up her living space. Some holiday clothes. Every year, she, or increasingly we, would turn wherever she was into the North Pole. It was as necessary to her as eating or breathing. Mom passed on the Christmas gene. I love to be cynical 10.5 months of the year but once mid-November rolls around, the holidays take over my house, too. There’s tinsel on the banister; the holiday movies start around U.S. Thanksgiving. We get a real tree as soon as we’re sure it’ll make it to New Year’s without becoming kindling. When Mom passed away this summer, there wasn’t much left in her long-term care room. Just the last few key possessions from a life well lived. My siblings and I each took home a handful of memories that meant the most. I grabbed the little stuffed reindeer. She’s been sitting on my desk ever since, waiting to head downstairs and join the other decorations not long from now. And she’ll take a field trip this year, coming along for the ride on one of our family traditions: loading up the car with Santa Claus Fund boxes and delivering them around Toronto. It’s powerful to realize you are holding someone’s Christmas morning in your hands, the way I imagine Mom felt when she came home with a hard-earned treasure. Every box means another kid gets to be a part of the magic. And as we drop them off, some of the joy she created in that farmhouse will spread across the city. The Toronto Star Santa Claus Fund With your gift, the Santa Claus Fund can help provide holiday gift boxes that inspire hope and joy to 50,000 financially vulnerable kids. GOAL: $1.5 million How to donate: Online: To donate by Visa, Mastercard or Amex, use our secure form at thestar.com/scf By cheque: Mail to the Toronto Star Santa Claus Fund, 8 Spadina Ave., Toronto, ON M5V 0S8 By phone: Call 647-250-8282 Tax receipts will be issued. To volunteer: Email scfvolunteer@thestar.ca Follow us on social: Instagram: @torontostarchildrenscharities Facebook: @thetorontostarchildrenscharities X: @TStarCharities LinkedIn: the Toronto Star Children’s Charities TikTok: @torstarchildrenscharity Bluesky: @tstarcharities.bsky.social #StarSantaClausFund
