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WHAT'S NEW
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A true tale about skipping Christmas
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Inspired by her grandmother's storytelling, a disenchanted Christmas dropout gets reacquainted with the magic of the festive season.
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By Nicole Lundrigan
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It was Christmas, and I was in Halifax away from all my family and friends in St. John's, Nfld. And I was going to stay in Halifax. It was a decision I'd made for reasons I could not fully comprehend. I didn't even attempt to book a plane ticket to St. John's until I thought the chance of getting a seat would be non-existent. I never finished the daunting task of buying the many gifts I needed. I thought that Christmas would never be as I wanted it, so perhaps it would be best if the day just passed me by.
For most people, Christmas is a time when joy and hope converge, a time when love floods your soul and you feel regenerated. But not for me. Christmas had become something different.
The season of excess
Twisted up like a candy cane, the Christmas I knew was fat with excess but still completely hollow. I read "irritation, stress and anxiety" for "joy and hope." I watched people spend too much, eat too much and drink too much. For me, Christmas was an overly lavish time when the very worst in people emerged -- all in the name of celebration.
Being young and righteous, I felt it was necessary to take a stand. I would spend Christmas alone, do a little reading, perhaps prepare for the university term ahead and cook myself a couple of nice meals. I tried to put all thoughts of Christmas out of my head and settled in, comfortable with my decision to have an anti-holiday. But as much as I tried to banish them, the thoughts of Christmas came. In particular, I remembered a story that my grandmother, who had lived in Catalina, a little fishing outport in Newfoundland, once told me about Christmas in 1920. Wrapped gently in her words was a quiet piece of advice -- but the meaning had eluded me.
"This story is about the very first Christmas I can remember," my grandmother had said to me. "It left quite an impression because I was only four years old." Then she began.
"I was waiting for my grandfather to pick us up with his horses and sleigh. It was Christmas Eve, and my mother and I were travelling to my grandparents' house for the holidays.
"I remember the harbour was packed with huge chunks of ice. I could see my friends playing on the ice pans, jumping from one to the other, trying not to fall in. Just then, my grandfather pulled up to the gate. Steam puffed from the horses' noses and they shook their Christmas bells, letting us know they were ready.
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