2 am. I shut off the television and put a little country music on the radio, the volume low. The building is quiet for a change. No late-night sounds of fellow tenants on the stairs or hall doors banging. Even the traffic on the street outside has ceased. It is, except for the twang of guitars and drawl of country singers, a quiet, still night.
Lately, even though it is summer, I have been watching Christmas movies. Strange, I know, but I got the idea from my now deceased brother Doc. Christmas was always his best time of year and after his wife died, he liked to be transported to the snow and decorated trees and family scenes. These movies have the added romance dimension. They are seasonal love stories.
When I used to live and work in St. Thomas, Ontario, I was at Doc's place every Christmas Eve. He always went all out decorating the inside of his home. Red and green streamers, twisted to give them a twirl, were taped to the ceiling in carefully identical patterns. A single strand of tinsel hung from the joint between twists making the design sparkle. Fluffy gold or silver garland lined the entranceways to each room. Colored lights framed mirrors or any reflective surface. Figurines of Christmas characters were set out on shelves. Christmas music sung by country artists played softly, adding to the atmosphere.
I would park across the street from his house. Often, it was snowing as I crossed to his front porch. I always knocked, despite it being my brother's, and me being expected. Once inside the warm house, I would shed my parka and scarf and boots, and Doc would offer me a Christmas drink. I would always have just one glass of whiskey with him. I was driving and he did not want to get drunk. I'd greet his wife and then we both headed for the main room and the mostly decorated tree. The kids were all in bed and presumably asleep by this time.
The tree was almost done, and it did not take us both long to finish it. It was his wife who finished the tree. He would call her into the room, and she would take a handful of tinsel and thoughtfully walk around the sparkling tree adding, throwing strands of the shiny stuff onto spots she thought needed just that little bit more. Then it was done, and we stepped back to admire it.
Among all the ornaments were keepsakes from our home in Port Wallace, Nova Scotia. Every year, my mom, who died when I was 2 years old, would buy a new ornament for the tree. A set of white bells that glowed in the dark when the lights were turned off or a set of graceful birds that clipped to the tree branches and were delicately painted in soft colours with strands of fibers for tails and crowns that fanned out behind and above them. Mom's ornaments were known to all my older siblings and a premium object they wanted from home after they all grew up, married, and had families of their own.
The finishing touch of the evening was my duty as honorary Santa. Cookies and milk had been set out for the jolly elf by my young nephews and nieces, and it fell to me to eat them, taking care to leave a few chunky crumbs behind on the plate and a little milk in the bottom of the glass. Doc's wife would say, "Okay Santa", and I would perform the duty. She was a good cook, and the cookies were always tasty, so it was not a chore at all.
It was late by then, and Doc and I would talk while I put on my parka, scarf and boots. We shook hands and wished each other a Merry Christmas. His wife would come forward, hug me and leave a soft kiss on my cheek. Saying goodnight, I went out into the softly falling snow, crossed the street, fished my brush out of the back seat and dusted off the car, then left.
I understand why Doc watched Christmas movies year-round. They helped him recapture the season, the colour, the warmth and the love of Christmas no matter what time of year it was. Just as they do for me.
