Humbug

Auntie Elva and Auntie Myrtle lived in a big old house on a tree-lined street in Shaughnessy Heights, a neighbourhood of stately old mansions. Theirs was a smaller manse than the others, but to me it was huge.

But then, I was small.

Every Christmas Eve, my family and I piled into our station wagon and travelled from the burbs to the sisters’ ivy-covered house. Somewhere in West Vancouver a carload of cousins was also wending its way to the celebration.

The aunties wore floral-patterned dresses circa 1946 and sensible shoes from the same era, even as we entered the '60s. Their Christmas corsages brushed my cheek as they embraced me at the door and the faded-boudoir scent of their dusting powder filled my nose.

A big tree stood shimmering in its yuletide finery in the living room, where leaded windows reflected the tinsel and coloured lights. Fragrances of pine sap and mincemeat pie commingled in the enchanted air.

Auntie Elva was legendary for her bad cooking. Every Christmas Eve her crowning glory was placed in the middle of the dining room table: a lime Jell-O dome with entrapped carrots and green olives, the latter staring out from the wobbly emerald world with bloodshot pimento eyes.

Auntie Myrtle liked to settle into the couch by the fireplace after dinner. With the warmth of the fire at her side, she rested her ample girth next to a few souvenir cushions: satiny tasseled things with Hawaii or Reno written on them.

I don’t know if Myrtle had ever been to those places but I do remember she had been a missionary in China when foot binding was banned in ‘49. She helped care for misshapen feet that had been bound since childhood, as any female who didn’t take the bindings off would be fined by the government.

Elva had been a librarian when she married my grandfather. He was a sea captain divorced from his first wife, my grandmother. Which meant Elva was actually my step grandmother, a fact I wasn't really aware of till later in life.

The captain had died years ago and was buried at sea. I never knew him but I saw his presence around the sisters’ house in the many objects he’d brought back from his voyages: cloisonné vases and carved ebony from China, brass tables and wicker baskets from India.

Elva's personality was flamboyant but her style suggested a refined lady of letters. Unlike her sister, she talked a lot, and I treasured the sound of her words: the timbre of her voice fell somewhere between whiskey and black tea.

Every year the aunties gave me a beautifully wrapped present and every year it was a doll. My sister, just a year older than me, also got a doll every year. So did our only girl cousin in attendance.

Popping humbugs into our mouths, we carried our new babies up the staircase that led to the aunties’ neat and hallowed bedrooms. We stopped on the spacious landing and set up house.

The landing had a stained glass window that glimmered amethyst and amber in the glow of a chandelier which hung from the ceiling of the downstairs hallway. Leaning over the stairway bannister, we tried in vain to reach the sparkling crystals so we could hear their jingling music.

One year, our cousin got the bright idea to hit the unreachable pendants with our humbugs. And so, taking aim, we spit our candies at the jewelled light. My sister managed to graze a crystal more than a few times, creating the tiniest tinkle, like a miniature reindeer wearing an itsy-bitsy bell.

Our cousin usually got a slightly bigger sound with her candies, but I always fell short, and was therefore designated humbug-retriever. This game became a yearly tradition, but I never made a hit, and so was always running down the stairs to get the humbug bits off the Persian runner before anyone could scold us for our sticky hijinks.

One Christmas Eve, the eldest of our doll brigade, our cousin, was gifted a sweater instead of a baby. The next year, my sister, the second eldest, also got a sweater.

I feared what was ahead for me.

I only wanted dolls. I loved the smell of new dolls at Christmas. I loved their clothes and the way their eyes shut when you put them to bed. I loved everything about dolls. I did not like sweaters.

The year I'd turned eleven, everything at the sisters’ Christmas celebration was wonderful, as usual. Until, that is, I sat by the tree staring at a soft beribboned present with my name on it. Slowly, I removed the festive paper and silver bows to reveal the gift.

It was maroon, it was wool, it was the end of an era.

I said thank you and headed for the landing. The crackle of the hearth fire and the hum of voices receded. Sucking on a humbug helped to keep tears at bay, as I remembered the dolls of Christmases past.

Then, I took aim. And with all the confidence of a sailor targeting a spittoon, I spit my candy at the chandelier. It hit, creating a jingly little knell that announced the beginning of the end of my childhood.

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