The Rural Voice, 1999-12, Page 24By Linda Gabris
3JLtIS
was at the age when I still
believed in Santa vet, deep in my
heart, I knew better than to expect
him to come on that eve so many
years ago. The winter had been a hard
one and I remember it well.
Our troubles began when father,
who was jobbin' up at Harlock's
sugar bushes, had an accident. While
skidding logs behind his team,
Coaloil and Russet, he lost his
footing and slipped down a steep, icy
embankment.
"Twas a wonder," marvelled old
Dinger. our neighbour and a
lumberjack who worked with dad,
"you didn't break yer neck." Dinger
and mother were driving dad home
from the hospital.
"Dinger!" mother interrupted, as
she fussed over father who was
bound and wound from head to toe in
plaster and dressing, "Let's give
thanks and not dwell on what could
have happened."
I was hunched in the corner
behind the wood stove, sharing dad's
pain as mom and Dinger struggled to
get him onto the day cot 'neath the
kitchen window. I shuddered every
time poor father moaned. After much
ado, they finally had dad settled
where he would be •laid up for
months.
That season mother and I managed
20 THE RURAL VOICE
T
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to keep things running as best we
could. I could tell that it pained father
— even more than his injuries — to
see us, especially mother, having to
work so hard with him not being able
to help.
"At least let me do something
while you're out there hauling water
and chopping firewood!" Dad
pleaded until mother finally agreed to
let him help with some household
chores. She'd assign him jobs like
peeling potatoes or folding laundry
... tasks he could handle from his
awkward perch on the cot. With dad
not being able to work, the money in
the plaid cookie tin soon ran out.
"Things will be fine..." mom'd
say, trying to be cheerful as she slid
another overdue notice into the
mounting stack of bills.
"They're addin' up ...?" Dad
worried aloud only to be scolded by
mother.
"We'll manage!" Mom held strong
to her faith. "Now, quit fretting, and
let yourself mend."
It was nearing Christmas as I sat
one evening paging through a tattered
Eaton's catalogue I had rescued from
Dinger's tool shed. Father couldn't
stand the idleness any longer and had
sent me over to borrow some
woodworking tools from Dinger.
During the day while mother
1.
struggled to keep up with the chores
and I was in school, father occupied
himself with the tools and slats of
maple. All that he would allow me to
see of his project was a heap of
shavings at the side of his cot.
Paging through the moldy book, I
smiled thinking of past seasons when
I had asked Santa for a paint set or
bag of coloured marbles and he'd
brought me paper cutout dolls or a
jigsaw puzzle instead. I wondered
how he could always find something
that I wanted even more!
As I sat there wishing out loud, I'II
never forget how heartbroken and
disillusioned I felt when I noticed the
worried looks on mom and dad's
faces! Putting two and two together,
it suddenly dawned on me that Santa
and my parents seemed to be one and
the same!
When I overheard dad joking to
mother about poor Santa's budget, 1
felt foolish and greedy as I realized
that I was hoping for things we
couldn't afford. I excused myself and
went to bed, uncomfortable with
hearing any more of their whispers.
As Christmas neared, the notion
that Santa wouldn't be bringing me
anything grew. To put mom and dad
at ease, I pretended that there was
nothing that I really wanted anyways.
I hadn't given mother the letter that