We Found Christmas At The Fonthill Five and Dime
by Patricia Cresswell

First snow tumbles laughing across the lawn, here at last. I could smell it coming this morning, that unique scent balancing on the crisp snapping air. Once again entranced, I glide across years on whirling white and land in my desk at St. Kevin's School, where Sister Angeline is trying to teach us to crochet.

There are three days that shine brightly, magically around the periphery of Christmas, twinkling and chiming in my mind's attic of bigger than life memories. Days which tantalized, tweaked, and teased my thoughts and feelings as I sat, barely containing myself, like every other child poured into stuffy, boring classrooms when all the world was preparing for that paragon of holidays.

To begin with was the day of the first snow. Waking up to reflected light bursting under the eyelids, shaking out remembrances of adventures in Arctic climes, fierce polar bears waiting for slow children who lagged behind for one last snowball. Oh, the glory of that day as I bounded out of bed and rushed to the window for my inaugural sight of the first snow. All the holy holiness held close, tight arms squeezing to keep in the waves of delight so as not to dissipate but save them, for what I didn't know. No call needed from below stairs, washed, dressed and breakfast consumed without prodding or pleading. Bundled into impossible winter snowsuits, our every move was a symphony of coordination which only happened on this beginning of Christmas day.

Ah, as the back door opens with the pop of a firecracker, breaking ice formed in the cracks overnight, that initial breath of air. Like a gourmet wine taster, I test the wind sniffing and exploring this year's new crop. My eyes squint, a glorious glare of sun bouncing off of deep white cushions of new untrod snow. The first step tells all... prime packing.

The second day is actually the last. The last day of school before Christmas holidays, a bacchanalia of cake, cookies, cards, and gifts for picked names from Santa's secret list. The morning was tense. Not an eye strayed toward lesson or book, but kept vigil on the clock above the front blackboard. No amount of scolding or cajoling could dent the wall of concentration or deplete the sense of excited expectancy, not even the thought of Christmas delectables and presents. Freedom was the three o'clock chime which tolled out through the minds and hearts of all children.

Still, at noon, curiosity and a sweet tooth managed to drag me back to class as we cleared our desks and prepared to feast. Everything in order, even though our fidget ratio increased prodded on by hands that had decreased in their speed of passage to a limp-noodle lope around the face of the clock. Lunch first, good old soggy tomato sandwiches eaten to the last crumb because of the starving children somewhere. I always felt most giving when it came to those sandwiches and would have willingly donated them to a good cause.

One eye warily peered at the box of gifts as Sister Angeline busied herself laying out the cookies, cakes, and candies on paper Christmas plates. The hum of voices became louder and an occasional repressed giggle was heard. Milk monitor became gift monitor standing puffed up and proud waiting to read out the first name. Finally when not one more thing had to be done in preparation, the good Sister would take her seat and nod toward the box. An audible sigh would envelope the room as gifts began to pass into eager hands, all in good order of course.

At last snowsuit swathed, be-mittened, and booted, we sallied forth like the chosen people out of bondage. Oh, the freedom, as we passed beneath the gray arches into the golden light of a sinking sun and the holidays stretching on as if forever.

If Christmas were the sun, then this day would swing earth-like about its magnificence. This is difficult to describe, not because I lack the necessary terms, but because when I dump that memory on the floor before me, so many words and phrases tumble out, each seeming more exact and scintillating than the other. It was a day of lessons learned, as well as mystery, treasure hunts, and quiet satisfaction.

Two days before Christmas Eve every year we, all eight of us, Momma and Poppa included, would pile into the family car to drive through a glittering twilight toward the village of Fonthill. It is a wonder the vehicle did not glow for all of the intensity of feeling contained within its cold metal frame - the plans, the subterfuge being plotted in each eager mind, the gleeful expectations, the rib-tickling sense of adventure.

Poppa would park the car on the main street right in front of Woolworth's Five and Dime, and we would all climb out into the cold. Lined up outside the doors in a barely contained, ready to burst, flock of fidgeting fledglings we stuck out our hands and waited. With solemnity each palm was crossed with a fresh, crisp, ready to be spent, whole, one dollar bill. To us this was riches beyond imagining, more than any one time amount ever received.

Then we would hear Poppa's time-honored caution intoned in his most fatherly timbre, "This is to be spent on your gifts to the family. Be careful and spend wisely." At least I am pretty sure that is the way it went, the excitement at the time and the time between then and now playing a part in impugning my accuracy. He would step forward and slowly, with great pomp, open one of the doors. For me, the warmth, sights, sounds, and scents of Christmas are wrapped around that moment. I felt like Ali Babba after "Open Sesame." Before me lay all of the riches of the world.

Woolworth's was not a large store. There were three or four aisles running straight away from the front entrance and one across the back. We always arrived at dinner time so the place was fairly quiet even this close to the big day. Although it made keeping track of us easier for our parents, the logistics of getting about unseen required the cunning of a master spy. What was more problematic was the old wooden floors which squeaked and groaned even under the lightest step and made sneaking up on an unsuspecting purchaser very difficult indeed. However the greatest task, which required the wisdom of Solomon and the financial wizardry of a Bay street tycoon, was choosing exactly the right gift for seven people and dividing the dollar equally.

What a cornucopia of gift-giving potential spread out before calculating eyes, well not quite before, as my height and the counter top's made it necessary to put into practice a few best ballet toe steps. I took off to the right looking for the aisle with the perfume and scented soaps, Momma always got first place, top of the list. Sniffing my way past counters piled with hats and mitts, I followed sweet aromas until rounding a corner. There it was, Woolworth's finest toiletries.

Decisions, decisions, lily of the valley soap or the apple blossom perfume in the little glass dog? I settled on the perfume and crept away to the pipe section, a new package of pipe cleaners for Poppa plus a fine white linen hankie. After that it was easy, a fancy pencil with Santa embossed on one side, an eraser shaped like a car, a box of Crayola crayons, eight colours, a red hair barrette, and a package of fancy safety pins for the baby's diapers. Each selection was inspected and compared with its kind until the most superior specimen could be found. Ahhhhh, finished. What wonders I had chosen, now to get them through the cash register line without being seen.

As we drove home through the muffled magic of that special night, I sat back, cradling my gifts to my chest, pleased and somehow transformed. Each year I rediscovered that the blessedness of giving was more exciting than a Saturday matinee. The plots, the maneuvering, the final rush of success. Intrigue at its very best! Trying to secretly wrap the gifts was tomorrow's problem.

About the Author

Patricia Cresswell is a poet who has recently begun writing again after a twelve year hiatus. She has had two poems published in the Canadian Women's Studies/les cahiers de la femme, a York University publication, Toronto, Ontario Canada. Another recent endeavour was writing and compiling a sixty-seven page book called "Breaking The Silence," about spousal abuse.

Her work has appeared in Kudzu Monthly three times, twice as cover poems in the February, 2002 issue (Sky View From the QE II) and the June Kudzu Monthly, (Childless Moments), in which she also had a feature page of her poetry.

Images: Charles Monet, "The Magpie," 1869