It is that time of year for reflection. Christmas is soon to arrive. The time was once widely celebrated as a season of giving and of sharing precious moments with family and friends. Every person and every family creates their own memories, their own understanding of what has largely been known as a Christian holiday celebrating the birth of Christ the saviour.
In my language, Wolastoqey (Maliseet), there is no direct translation for Christmas. We do, however, have descriptions for this time of year. Many of my generation, including language advocates, use the phrase Woli Nipayimiyan. It loosely translates to “good nighttime praying,” an expression associated with midnight mass, a Catholic Christmas ritual.
I have conflicting thoughts about this time of year. It was the season when we visited my mother’s and father’s brothers and sisters, and I loved it. There was always food and drink in abundance.
When I left my home community to pursue education and, eventually, a working life, I always looked forward to returning home for the holidays. Once I left the Indian reserve where I grew up, there was no turning back. As my father had predicted, “He’ll never come back.” Still, while both my parents were alive, I made sure I returned at Christmas.
Often, I drove through snowstorms to get home. One year, I never made it. I hit a patch of ice, spun out of control and landed in a ditch. A police cruiser noticed my taillights fading and stopped to investigate. I was trying to stay warm with a blanket. I had been driving from Banff, Alberta, to New Brunswick. My car was wrecked, and I was stranded in Brandon, Manitoba, four days before Christmas.
The officers drove me to a Native Friendship Centre, as they were called at the time. One of them mentioned there was a dance happening that night.
It was the first of many powwows I would attend. I likely looked foolish as I had never danced before, but I tried.
We are wanderers. I believe roaming is natural human behaviour. When the repair shop told me my car would take weeks to fix and not until after the holidays, my euphoria vanished and was replaced by grief and sadness. Would I really spend Christmas stranded in Manitoba?
With a knapsack on my back, a sleeping bag to keep me warm, and borrowed mitts and a wool toque from the Friendship Centre staff, I set out on the road.
I was a veteran hitchhiker. At 17, I had travelled to the west coast and back that way.
Luck was with me. My first ride was heading toward Montreal. We drove through a blizzard. The driver kept a container in his glove compartment filled with some of the best hashish I have ever encountered. With a beautiful French accent, he eagerly asked me to pack the pipe. He called it Nepalese Christmas cheer.
We shared stories as I pulled out my harp from a dirty red bandana and sang every song he knew.
Eventually, with many songs behind us and my throat sore, he pulled off at an exit for Pointe-Claire, a village on an island in the St. Lawrence River. My new friend said he could drop me there but insisted I join him at his parents’ home for a meal and a warm bed.
Hours later, a hearty serving of pot-au-feu, glasses of red Burgundy and an evening of storytelling warmed me through. The next day, his New Brunswick-born mother drove me back to the Trans-Canada Highway. She slipped a $20 bill into my hand, wished me a Merry Christmas, and told me it was only an eight-hour hitch home. She warned me to stay near the exit, as hitchhiking was illegal.
In that moment, I realized a wanderer, a stranger, had been made kin, if only for an evening. There was no cultural divide, no racial tension, just kindness. We shared stories of lean Christmases gone by. They, too, celebrated midnight mass. Their parting wish was Joyeuses Fêtes.
Snow flurried along the highway that day. The distance felt endless, but I made it home in time for midnight mass. Dad never locked his truck, so I stashed my gear behind the seat and climbed the church steps. From outside, I could hear my mother singing with the choir, her voice unmistakably an octave higher than the rest.
I slid in beside her in the seat she always saved for me. She did not acknowledge my arrival, but tears ran down her face.
Memories are made from moments like these. My fondest ones include watching my parents kiss before bedtime, always calling each other by their full names. Dad would sneak up behind Mom and gently pull her close. There was laughter, silence, and affection that lasted their entire lives. I do not remember them arguing.
The truth is, I never told them how much I loved them. Many of us did not.
Nostalgia is a complex and bittersweet emotion. My parents passed more than 30 years ago, yet their memory offers profound comfort. That may be the greatest Christmas gift of all.
Not everyone is as fortunate, but enough of us know this feeling.
Happy holidays.
