So it’s Christmas Eve.
What can I talk about today?
I don’t feel like being a crime-fighter, exposer of scandals, whistle-blower, or any of those really cool things. I mean it’s the day before Christmas for the love of Pete, so bad form to be throwing punches and slinging rocks.
I could do my own little story about the journey of the Holy Family, with the star and the kings and the Inn and the stable. Frankincense and myrrh. And the gold too. But you’ve probably heard that one before, maybe plenty of times, along with eloquent analysis and commentary about what it all means. If I were to do that, I’d be spoiling your pastor’s homily/sermon tomorrow morning, and I’m not going to do that. Church will be standing room only tomorrow so I’ll not do anything to take away from the experience.
So I’ll share three personal Christmas Eve experiences with you and call it a day.
We actually used to go to Mass on Christmas Eve as a family. That is after we made the annual trip to Papa George’s for Booyah, or booja, a Polish tradition involving a thick stew and bread. My father-in-law wasn’t Polish, in fact he was a Yorkshire Englishman, and it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if he had been Polish, because I only understood maybe 30% of what he said on a good day. He told a lot of jokes, some of them funny, so I’d just nod and smile and laugh a lot as my default setting at his place. I’m sure he disliked me, but there it is. But his late wife, my mother-in-law, liked me a lot, and she was the Polish influence in the household, hence the booyah.
Booyah would begin at 3 PM on Christmas Eve, while the first Mass would be at 7 PM. It used to be close to four hours of some sustained smiling and laughing, so much so that I’d be almost a little punch-drunk by the time we got to church. Plus, booyah has a lot of stuff swirling in that stewy thickness, and a lot of it seems to belong to the onion/garlic family, and that can result in you taking the essence of booyah with you wherever you go afterwards, including church.
I used it to my advantage. I talked the family into the sense of having a set of booyah clothes specifically intended for Papa George’s house. These would be the garments that would soak up all that Polish goodness, but would be replaced by church-specific clothing before attending Mass. And since we needed a familial wardrobe change, that would necessitate leaving Papa George’s earlier, because, well, we had to get ready. Can’t be late for church and make the Baby Jesus cry, right?
That piece of tactical brilliance would shave a good hour off our TOT — time on target — which meant that, if you arrived a little late to begin with, the whole booyah experience would be slashed down to around two hours or so. It’s what you do.
I can say all of this because my ex-wife doesn’t read my stuff.
Back in 1978, I was home from university and hanging out with my buddy John on Christmas Eve, and as I’m sure you can understand, there’s not a hell of a lot going on to capture the attention of a couple of 19 year-olds. We had given up on the whole thing around 11:30 PM or so when he pulled out a joint and proposed we smoke it to ring in Christmas. Sounded like a legitimate proposition to me so smoke it we did, just off memorial Drive, not far from the Catholic Church we both attended as we grew up.
Suddenly there’s cars everywhere, which does nothing for our post-cannibas paranoia, but certainly does make things a little more entertaining, albeit puzzling. But then we figured it out. It was Midnight Mass at Holy Name of Jesus.
I had never been to Midnight Mass that I can remember, and neither had John, and we started to entertain the silliness of actually walking into the church and ringing in Christmas the right way, although somewhat tainted by the previous abuse of narcotics on the side of the road moments before. And then we saw Peter Kennedy, a buddy of ours, complete with the whole Kennedy clan, getting out of their cars and assembling to make their entrance. The Kennedy’s were church royalty, and frankly Mr. Kennedy scared me, and so did son Tim, but I had a crush on daughter Barbara and that was the determining factor. If Barb’s going to church, I’m going to church.
You guys thought the Hallmark thing was a recent phenomenon, didn’t you?
So in we went, and by the hand of providence, ended up sitting right behind the Kennedys, and right behind Barb. Yes I was in church, but even better, I was in heaven. But, sadly, stoned in heaven, not something I think they see a lot of up there.
When it’s church like this, once you’re in you’e in, and nothing short of a fire is going to be accepted as an excuse for leaving. Plus, as if you’re going to stand up and leave even if you were straight, because every eye in the place would be right on you. So there was no way that Stoner Steve was going anywhere, because by this time I just wanted to melt into the wood of the bench I was sitting on. I was so convinced that I wouldn’t have to line up to get into hell, because I’d go straight in through shipping/receiving.
What a mistake.
I almost felt like one of those National Geographic correspondents who would visit some tribe that had just recently walked out of a cave somewhere exotic. Although a Catholic my entire life, you’d think this was day one for me. Couldn’t recite the prayers, couldn’t sing the songs, and damned-near collapsed when we had to shake hands with everyone, something I forgot about. That meant shaking hands with Mr. Kennedy and Tim as well, which scared the bejesus out of me. I couldn’t even look at Barb, and she was right in front of me. I didn’t even shake her hand I was so nervous.
Twice during the service, my enemy John reached over and tapped Barb on the shoulder closest to me, and twice she turned around and looked at me. So did Tim, with that snarl of his, cause he hated me, always did. And Pete, shaking his head in disgust. I never went to Mass with John ever again because of that.
I truly don’t know how I survived Communion, because that’s when I saw my sister Karen, and that’s where she saw me. She must have been so proud to see her little brother in church, let alone with a commitment like Midnight Mass. And Karen’s the kind of sister who is super proud of her little brother anyway, always wanting to introduce me to anyone nearby. Karen’s church royalty too, so that means being introduced to a lot of people seated at the left hand of the Father, and there’s just no way. When this Mass ended, I wasn’t going to leave, I was going to evacuate.
Two things worked in my favour as we egressed from church at the completion of the service. One, Tim Kennedy couldn’t beat the shit out of me because there were too many people around, and Timmy was an upstanding boy and Catholic, a noted alumni of Scollard Hall. Second, my sister couldn’t get free of the crowd quickly enough to snag me for her round of introductions. So I was saved, literally and figuratively.
Barbara and I never married.
There’s one final Christmas Eve story I wish to share where I don’t come across as a total cad.
It’s Christmas Eve 1985, and it’s my very first day as a courier delivery driver for Gelco Express, now part of Purolator. My delivery van was absolutely jammed with mail, packages, and boxes. Absolutely stuffed to the point where you couldn’t open a door without stuff falling out.
There was no way those were all getting delivered in an eight-hour shift. Just no way.
Head office had dictated no overtime for this day, so what didn’t get delivered returned to the terminal to sit there for a couple more days. You could tell the business packages from the personal ones by the way they were packed and labelled. Business customers would get priority, because they paid the freight, so to speak.
And so 5 o’clock came and it was time to return to port. I could hear the other drivers radio their status back to command, but I didn’t exactly, I just said I’d be back soon.
I delivered my final parcel at 10:20 PM on Christmas Eve, somewhere on Ski Club Road.
I had plans for that night, and there was precious little on this Earth that would separate me from my drinking, but I just couldn’t stop and feel good about it or rationalize it. So I continued.
And you would think I was Santa.
All kinds of people were shocked and happy to see me at the same time, and I can tell you, I’m nothing special. But it was the spirit of the whole thing that they were bestowing on me, like I was some sort of angel, which I’m not but I’ll take it where I find it.
One lady cried, and others were misty-eyed. Men smiled and shook my hand. I think I got a couple of hugs in there too. Dogs wagged their tails. And several people invited me in for a drink, just one mind you, but if I accepted every one of those offers I’d be the Christmas angel busted on the side of the road for impaired, not a good corporate look on your first day.
That’s the story I’d like to leave you with. Not a story of my personal above-and-beyond heroism, although if you take it that way, cool. More the story of how we can all feel for one another, even care for one another, even strangers, and how those strangers will damned-near love you for doing so.
It was one of the best, most enduring memories of my life.
Happy Christmas Eve. And Merry Christmas!
NEWSMAGRENFREW 