JUST A GAL FROM GLIDDEN: White Christmases, like the ones I used to know
By Kate Winquist
I always feel a little melancholy at this time of year. I could blame it on the colder weather, I suppose, but the truth is simpler: I find myself dreaming of a White Christmas — the kind Bing Crosby sang about, the kind I used to know.
My fondest memories are rooted in the farm at Glidden, where Christmas always arrived wrapped in snow. I’m the youngest of six, and I can’t recall a single holiday without at least a dusting of white on the ground. Dad would plow the yard into towering drifts, and I’d be itching to bundle up, grab my bright red Super Saucer, and fly down the big hill. My sister Carrie and I would build snow forts, and when the older siblings came home, we’d play Fox and Geese until our cheeks were numb. Dad even made a mini skating rink on the garden spot. Mom wouldn’t allow us to have a skidoo, but we could all fit into a stainless steel tub and be pulled behind the tractor! Go figure… like that wasn’t dangerous at all.
My Uncle Doug and I playing a game of “Booby Trap”.
Inside, the house always looked ready for Christmas. Reindeer lined the archway into the living room. The manger sat proudly atop the piano. Christmas cards filled the walls — and I sometimes wonder if people even send cards anymore.
Grandma, Grandpa, and Uncle Doug would make the drive from Elrose for Christmas dinner and games. Sometimes Aunt Peg and Uncle Dave arrived from Eatonia. We’d gather around the table for endless rounds of Hearts, Kaiser, or Stop the Bus. There might even be a crokinole tournament — though why we bothered, I’ll never know, since no one could ever beat Dad. And then there were rounds of Parchesi or Trivial Pursuit, where Mom’s mastery of literature and history left the rest of us shaking our heads.
Music filled the house too. We had a well-loved collection of Christmas records — my favourite was Jim Henson and the Muppets — but the real highlight was listening to my sisters play duets on the piano. Whoever felt brave enough would sing along. We always made time to watch Emmett Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas, a tradition that has since carried on to the next generation.
And the food — there was never a shortage of that. We’d wake early for stockings and gifts (youngest to oldest, of course), then tuck into homemade egg McMuffins or, in later years, The Wife Saver, prepared the night before and baked in the morning. For the rest of the day, we grazed on cookies and chocolates. My sister Kristine made homemade peppermint patties, and my brother Garth devoted hours to delicate hand-dipped chocolates and his famous antipasto. There was homemade Poppycock, Nuts & Bolts, and Grandpa’s brown sugar fudge. And then there was Grandma’s pudding and that unforgettable sauce — cooked all day in a double boiler, rich enough to stop your heart and warm your soul. The pudding itself was “fine,” but the sauce was legendary.
Of course, extra people meant only one bathroom to share, and sleeping space was a creative endeavour. More than once, I found myself tucked in beside a sister or relegated to the pullout cot in the rumpus room. Life felt so much simpler then.
Grandma and Grandpa have been gone for many years. Uncle Doug passed away in 2019. It’s been 15 years since we lost Dad — November 30, 2010 — and almost a year since Mom passed, on December 11. Perhaps that explains the ache I feel now. Still, when I hear Bing Crosby croon White Christmas, I can close my eyes and find myself back on that snow-covered farm, surrounded by family, love, and all the Christmases I used to know.