Sometime after the middle of November, the first staying snow usually fell on the Saskatchewan parkland.
It started with a few large flakes slithering down from a dingy, grey sky.
More flakes followed, only to disappear among the bleached grass on the ground. Flake upon flake soon whitened the land and winter had arrived.
Not all the snow immediately reached the ground. Some hung lightly upon the tree limbs until a wind scattered it or a raven shook the whiteness earthward again like dust.
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Our cattle huddled amid those trees near Rosthern, Sask., heads down, eyes staring dully at the falling snow. The cows had seen winters before.
Day followed shortening day, with Christmas drawing nearer, and I continued my late afternoon chores after school.
The snow turned blue as I worked, for the sun was setting. The cattle, now along the pasture fence, were patient, one lowing and giving voice to the short dusk.
A friendly flock of sharp-tailed grouse scurried to the far side of our two round oat stacks, and I began to pitch bundles to the waiting cows and oxen.
The darkening sky showed its first star and night came on. The blue-white moon, riding high in the sky, gained radiance and shone down on a gleaming world.
Tree branches were tipped with light. Even the air seemed to sparkle as if it had a glassy substance. Underfoot, the snow crunched more loudly than ever.
And I, heaving one last bundle over the fence, looked past the shadowed stacks to the house, where behind a window’s square of yellow lamplight, my own supper was waiting.
My first recollection of Christmas Eve was at age four. Our small church had a lamplit service, with gasoline mantle lamps that needed pumping up with air.
In my mind, I can still hear the hissing sound they made, hanging above our heads.
There was a tree – we called all evergreens pine in those days – festooned with large cardboard angels with tinsel halos. The tree bore real flaming candles in ornate holders.
After the sermon and carol singing, there was a call for “voluntary items” from the kids. I had learned a rhyme from Mother but I refused to recite it.
Dad fished a nickel from his clasp purse and pressed it into my hand for encouragement but my rhyme went unsaid. I don’t know whether I kept the nickel or not but I still received a bag of goodies.
We drove home by bobsleigh – I think a storm was brewing – the runners creaking over drifted banks on a cross-country winter road and the horses clopping loudly in the cold night air.
The best part of the evening was swinging into the yard and, with my bag clutched firmly, scrambling into our house and my bed.
Christmas Day was now just one sleep away.
