A Few Christmas Wishes I Want To Extend From A Once Upon A Time Scrooge

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST

IF ONLY WE COULD GO BACK IN TIME AND MAKE AMENDS WITH THOSE WE DISTANCED FROM IN LIFE

BY TED CURRIE

     There have been a thousand times, and yes, usually at around this time of year, that I have wished to have been able to talk to a few of my old mates and family friends that I fell out with, for a variety of reasons that matter very little now. Most of these old associates, work colleagues, and neighborhood chums from the olden days, of growing up here in South Muskoka, are of course deceased, and it bothers me considerably that we parted in haste, and never had the interest, or better stated courage, to resolve whatever had come between us. My biggest obstruction was my profession as a former editor, writer, and historian, all three that can involve stubbornness and arrogant behavior, even between friends. When I was working at the newspaper in Bracebridge, or writing here at Birch Hollow, or running the Woodchester Villa and Museum, I was staunchly focused, and serious well beyond what was necessary to get the job completed successfully. When there was a professional disagreement, as it most often was, I also felt slighted socially and I’d have no interest in communing with anyone who either got in my way, opposed something I was planning, or went behind my back to diminish in any number of ways, my perceived plans for progress. Professionally speaking, I felt compelled to stay the course, and bully my way through what ever obstacles were thrown in my way. I was never easily thwarted by friends or adversaries, but it has come to my attention these past several decades, that I might just have benefitted from their input, and suggested alternatives, if I had been seventy-five percent more receptive to the advice of other learned folks in my close company. I realized far too late for many of these past friendships to be righted, and the penalty for being such a dunderhead for long and long, like old Scrooge before his redemption, was that the friends and colleagues I needed to apologize to, had already left this mortal coil; leaving me with these regrets.

     I often walk or drive slowly past some of the places where I used to work, and ponder to myself in a distinguishable mumble, if I might have had a better relationship with work, and a higher level of accomplishment, if I had been able to broker a deal that would have long ago, ended the senseless impasse that served no good purpose. I suppose I am haunted on these quiet walks about town, by their gentle intrusions on my psyche, as if they are coming up from behind me, beneath the street light, sensing them to be close enough to outstretch a hand upon my shoulder; or grabbing me by the high collar of my jacket, to startle me on my stroll, reminiscing in silence about the days we worked so well together, and enjoyed friendship over end-of-day lagers at the Holiday House, where reporters like to hang-out after long days hustling news stories. I think I see their familiar silhouettes in the doorways we once haunted, especially at the old newspaper office on Dominion Street, and occasionally hear a chorus of their voices in that familiar refrain about “having too much work and not enough play,” exiting one of our other social encounters, that inspired nonsensical conversation about our general lot in life. It’s not that we ended our working relationships badly, or with any particular sharp edged grudge. Just with that wedge of indifference, and the unwillingness to restore what was old, with the counter influences of what is new. I dedicate this little Christmas piece to my former news colleagues, Brant Scott, John Black, Judith Brocklehurst and Harold Wright. To name just a few. I was the humbug to their Merry Christmases for far too long. 

THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST - WE SEE THEM, BUT WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?

CHRISTMAS IS A TIME OF REKINDLING AND RESTORATION

     It may have been one of the world's great works of fiction, but Charles Dickens' story, "A Christmas Carol," is a reflection of what most have us have been dealing with over a lifetime. We may not think of our reminicenses at this festive time of the year, as being spirited, or ghost-like. They're not just memories stirred by the sight of a fully decorated Christmas tree, or the heavenly aroma of seasonal baking, a turkey roasting in the oven (or tofurkey if that's suits you better), or the angelic stylings of a choir on the radio, performing your favorite Christmas Carols. Even if there was nothing around you, to remind you that it is the 20th of December, closing-in on Christmas Eve, you would probably still think about the past, and those friends and family who have since departed this mortal coil; and how nice it would be to see them once again. It's perfectly okay to recall these wonderful old memories, and the seasonal get-togethers at your home or at their places of residence. It is in many ways a sort of gentle and prolonged healing process, that we remember the way it was, and how secure we all felt in the company of these warm souls who seemed to light up the occasion with their bright, cheerful demeanors. This is reason enough, to honor their memories, each and ever one, by inviting them back into the contemporary celebration of the Christmas season. Take it from a career historian, there's nothing wrong with having one foot in the past, and the other in the present tense. If it gives you pleasure and comfort, then you should take up this "history" thing, for the good vibes it can prevail upon contemporary situations.

     I think it would please my mother and father, that we are still honoring their seasonal traditions; and we have numerous decorations here at Birch Hollow, that hung in their Bass Rock apartment, and twinkled on their four and a half foot tall, artificial tree, in the illumination of Merle's colored string of lights. She refused to use white lights on her small tree, because it was her own special continuance of a family tradition, dating back to her and my father's first Christmas, as a married couple, when they lived in a tiny apartment in Toronto.

     It is the same with Suzanne, who uses a number of old family relics, that her mother liked to place on the tree, or use elsewhere in the house as decorations. When we finally sit down and look at the way Christmas has been recognized, in terms of decoration, we feel comforted by the fact so many family generations are represented here, even if just in tiny, wee ornaments, that go back to our grandparents homes of fifty years ago. Add to this, the decorations Suzanne and I purchased for our first Christmas together, when we lived in a small one bedroom apartment on Bracebridge's Quebec Street; and then there were the familiar "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments, she bought each year, a tradition that has continued to this present Christmas; less important to the boys, but of great significance to their mother, who makes them place the ornaments she has purchased in their honor, on the tree in their desired location. It's a sentimental tree by golly, but it doesn't make us sad, or emotionally mire us down, in the quicksand of nostalgia; it's just a peace-of-mind thing; that we, in the present tense of life, are reflective in a kindly way, to how we have grown as a family, over the decades; and how proud we are of the roots set down by all the generations before us.

     I sometimes stay up to watch the news, when all the other inmates of Birch Hollow have retired to bedlam, and yes, I marvel at the twinkling splendour of the Christmas tree, occupying a section of the brick hearth to my left. I will be subtly visited by the spirits of the past, but they mean me no harm; or wish me to repent from being an old curmudgeon like Dickens' character, Ebenezer Scrooge. These are the ghosts we know. The faces belong to friends and family who have passed. They don't intrude on my, or our Christmas festivities, but they do serve to remind us that the celebration we are having, has in part, been the result of their past lives, heralding our futures. We are reverent in our household, of all the big and tiny roots of our family tree, and how all these interesting relatives added to the characters we have become. Yea, sure, there are some adverse characteristics passed up that sky-high tree, along with more intimate physical attributes, like the "famous Currie beak," and the Stripp "lobe-less" ears. I have a hiatus hernia just like my mother, and Suzanne walks just like her father, when he'd amble down the cottage hill, in Windermere, on the way to the boathouse. We recognize these attributes, like my wide forehead, as the honorable traits passed along by some family members we knew by name only. Both Andrew and Robert had musical great-grandparents, with considerable proficiencies with guitars and violins; I don't think they'd want to disassociate themselves from this side of family history. Seeing as we are largely the better for receiving these passed-along qualities and quantities, reflecting positively on the ones who contributed to the gene pool, seems the right thing to do, especially at a time of year when we come together in the spirit of giving, receiving with thanks, and planning out a similarly happy and healthy New Years. In the spirit of all the good years past.

     If I was to ask you, in a casual conversation, if you thought of yourself as historically inclined, or sentimentally sensitive, most would deny any such emotional tithe to the past, suggesting "it's just nice to think back to other Christmases. But I don't want to go back to history class!" Of course it is nice to reminisce. Why would this be, in any way, something different, than the way we feel every Christmas and New Years? Nonetheless, it is a relationship with personal history; your biography, the legacy of how you got from infancy to adulthood. If I was writing your biography, because someone in your family hired me to do so, I would obviously have to interview you to put together a chronology. Thus, a personal history. It's a funny thing, whenever I work on biographies, especially for people who have very little interest in history, and right from high school history class, they've been divorced from having anything to do with this course of study ever again. When they read the rough draft of the biography, to give their approval, or not, they realize quickly, that it is a history lesson on its own. It reacquaint the subject with their succession of events and accomplishments, and that folks, is pure, unadulterated history. It's one thing to think poorly of the way history is taught at school, but it's another thing to believe you can leave history in the classroom from which you graduated. Like it or not, you are part of the same history as we are, as is documented in the community where you live, the region, the province, and the country. Whether it's your medical history, credit history, work history or recreational past, it is documented somewhere and relevant to someone else other than you. I've had subjects of biographies complain to me that they have hated history, and its ilk, and would never watch historical programs even if they were paid to do so; and yet, when they read a rough draft of their own biography, they suddenly awaken to the fact, there is no escaping the past; and as they say, "time waits for no man." In the time taken to read this paragraph, history has been made around our world, and we have been an intimate part of its record, albeit as passive contributors.

     We Curries appreciate the true weight and measure of history, because we immerse ourselves in it, every hour of every day, of every month and year, whether it's in the course of buying and selling vintage musical instruments, hunting for old books and documents, playing old drums and mandolins for recreations, or wearing an antique train conductor's cap because it feels like the perfect fit. We have appreciation for history in both a material sense, and the abstraction, of trying to imagine where, for example, these beautiful old instruments, with worn fret-boards, and scuffed finishes, from arm and hand contact, were used in the past. What stage were they played upon, and with what other musicians? What songs were played on the 1943 (0018) Martin we have in the collection, and who once stood shoulder to shoulder with our upright bass in the backroom of the shop. Well sir, we know this was our old musician friend, Bob Deans' favorite piece, in our studio; and despite the fact he passed-away awhile back, every now and again a note is played, when no one is even on stage, and we stop, look up to where he used to stand, and we mindfully acknowledge, Bob has just got his wings. Often such reflections of the past, our past, are ones that bring a tear to our eye, and make us pine for the good old days. Yet, a fellow like Bob, would insist instead, that we play on and on, and on, in the spirit of goodwill. We never use that back stage area, without first acknowledging Bob, which is now considered an in-house tradition. And with all good traditions comes inspiration to carry-on with the performance, and that folks, is what we do!

     Everyone has a sad memory attached to Christmas, and maybe more. That's the commonplace of life. But for most of us, there are cheerful memories that eclipse those of loss, hardship and disappointments. It is not one Christmas you celebrate, but a succession of all the rolling years in your personal history. It is all a part of who you are, likable, or not so much, and there is always time, like Scrooge's encounter with the three spirits on Christmas Eve, to change history before the biographer sets down his pen. The future can be altered, to make a better past when recollected. Being aware of your past, and its intimate significance to who you are, and what influences contributed to your character, is a useful tool of self analysis, especially if you wish to improve upon the credits of the past. It's really what "A Christmas Carol" is all about. Improving chances for a more contenting, spiritually prosperous present tense, in order to create the template for a better future. Not all wrongs can be righted, but they don't have to be repeated.

    When I wish you a Merry Christmas, it is with the hope that you will also find it an historical milestone in your personal biography; and should you be visited by three spirits, consider yourself all the more fortunate because of it! We all need inspiration, and occasionally we benefit, being informed (however softly), we're going the wrong way down a one way street. I've been on this street many times in the past, and thankfully, have been able to change direction before it was too late. The Christmas and New Years period is a great time for reflection, and quiet reminiscence. Whether it is as basic as an ornament hung on the tree, your mother gave you one past Christmas, or the Nativity Scene, your grandfather made out of wood in his home workshop, just to please you.

    As subtle as the remembrance is, or fleeting as the daydream of other days, happened to be, these moments come and go for a reason, that only you will understand; and that you will be able to reckon with as a life marker. Mine today, at this moment, is the very real urge to sit down and have coffee with my parents, Merle and Ed, just like we did a thousand times in the past; to talk about the plans for Christmas, and what Suzanne and I, and the boys, will be bringing as dishes for the family dinner. I am just comforted by the fact I can still remember them, see their faces, and sense the smell of Ed's roast turkey snapping in the oven, and Merle's colorful Christmas candles on the table; the ones she always brought out for Christmas, since I was a kid, that were never, ever ignited. I can't explain why, but it was one of my mother's endearing quirks. I'm sure you can remember some of your own mother and father's curious habits, that didn't require explanation; just passive acceptance that "if it pleases them, then it pleases us." Enough said.

      Have a great Christmas season, and feel at ease with the spirit of Christmas past. It means you no harm.