|Boris comes in from the cold. Ha. Russian joke there.|
Since the tree is so stout, and fully packed with branches, with a long snout at the top, it sort of resembles a hedgehog. So I considered for a time that I might change its name to Mrs. Tiggywinkle. Or Mr. Tiggywinkle, since it’s definitely a boy tree. But Boris seemed to stick.
|Hubby, in his wood-cutting outfit, utilizing the necessary tools.|
Hubby thinks that Boris is a perfect name for the tree, and he keeps threatening that he’s going to put some vodka in the tree stand instead of water. Because, well, not to disparage Boris or anything, but he does drink an awful lot. We’ve watered him at least two or three times every day. And we’ve been laughing that maybe we should have named him Pius, after my grandfather, whose ancestor emigrated from Ireland back in 1819, and who liked a tipple in his day. But a tree would have to be very tall, and still round, to be named after my grandfather. So Boris has remained Boris.
|Little Boris, home at last.|
|Boris au naturel|
|Boris with his glad rags on.|
Some Christmas traditions seem to live on generation after generation. Some fall away over the decades, and we make new ones to replace them. We still serve my grandmother Knowles’s fruit salad at Christmas dinner, even though only those of us who grew up with it, like my sister and I, love it. I started making French-Canadian tourtière from my friend Susan’s recipe about twenty years ago, and now I think Christmas Eve would not be Christmas Eve without tourtière. And in the past few years, Hubby and I have kind of eschewed the gift-giving thing. Childhood Christmas gifts, however, still loom large in my memory. Last night I asked Hubby what his most memorable Christmas gift was as a child. He said his first hockey sweater, with the Chicago Black Hawks logo. Well, no surprises there.
|A hockey star is born.|
Mine was the Christmas my mum bought me real step-dancing shoes, with clickers and everything. I’d been taking step-dancing lessons that year, paid for by my big brother, and making do with my regular shoes. I was so excited to get those dancing shoes. Not sure my mum was as happy as I was after a few months of constant clicking around the house. I tapped morning, noon, and night. Mum says that she could even hear me skiffing and clicking around my room in the morning as I made my bed, that it was as if I had nervous feet. Ha. I still have my old step-dancing shoes because, you know, “some gifts are more than a gift,” they touch your heart, and you just cannot bear to part with them.
The ad by John Lewis, below, touched my heart. Have a listen. I love Elton’s singing. And the sentiment expressed at the end.
So as Elton might say, this is my gift to you, my friends. Not a song. Just a fond hope for a wonderful holiday season, whatever holiday you celebrate, even if you don’t celebrate at all. Wishing you warm fires, savory meals with family and friends, a good book or two, some hearty laughter, and a healthy and bright 2019.