St. Patrick's Day - A bit late

 

This is my one book with a real Irishman in the story. The hero is based on a neighbor who always charmed me with his accent. I miss seeing him and his wife and being charmed by their accents.

St. Patrick's Day is well celebrated in Rockland County with a parade and many activities. Dance competitions and of course food, singing, too.

While I can claim an Irish heritage, it's not a green one but an orange one. Never bothered me when I was younger but often received comments, some not so nice. I had an orange jumper I wore on St. Patrick's Day. Wore it to Duquesne U located on a hill over looking Pittsburgh. Mt English class contained most of the basketball tea,, a powerhouse in those day. I recieved laughter and the shaking of heads but also an invite for coffee. With seven escorts the day was great.

I also had the chance to visit the town where my Irish ancestor left to come to the un Bellenahinch. I'm sure I've spelled this worng. A town built on a hill but pretty.

Christmas Memories by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Memories #Hershey's Kisses # Tree buying

 

 The cover is for my latest release and there is a Christmas short story in the collection. For me Christmas is always about memories. I remember about 85 of them or maybe 84 for my then I would have turned three.

Today as I was working on making peanut blossom cookies with the Hershey's Kisses on each one, my thoughts turned to missing my husband very deeply. The reason. He always took the foil off the Kisses and for the past three years, my granddaughter who took over the chore is living around the corner now. That's one memory. But another seems so vivid. I was about eight years old and I was sent to buy the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, My father was a steelworker and as happened frequently, the stieelworkers were on strike so money was tight. My fahter worked for a friend's store and took his pay in presents for his children.

I had five dollars. My friend went with me and with his wagon so we could bring the tree back. Now to get to the place where the VFW sold trees, we had to either cross the railroad tracks or go the long way. We managed to carry the wagon down the steps and off we walked the ten blovks to the slot whre the trees were sold.

Most of the trees had been sold but there was one my friend's uncle had held back. The tree was beautiful and between eight and nine feet tall. They did saw off the end and removed a few branches but our trip home was a horror story. The wagon was maybe four feet long and the tree hung over front and back. When we reached the house, my father and uncle came to carry the tree inside.

My father looked at me. "Couldn't you find a smaller one."

"They were ugly." I didn't know then about Charlie Brown Christmas trees. He hadn't appeared yet. With struggles they put the tree in the stand and set ii in acorner. My dad laughed. "We're only decorating the front. There aren't snough lights and decorations for the whole tree."

That's this year's Christmas memories. The tree one came about when my granddaughter felt sad because we're now using an artificial one.

May every one have great memories of Christmas and build new ones for next year.

Goodbye but not forgotten...by Sheila Claydon

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When Many a Moon, the final book of my Mapleby Memories trilogy is published on 1 June, I will definitely be celebrating. Writing it has been a challenge but along the way I've learned a lot - about how to manage writer's block, about the thirteenth century in England, about working in an hotel, about the housekeeping duties at a country club, and most of all about how we all carry some of the past with us in our genes and hidden deep within our our ancestral memories.

How did this all start? How did this picture of a derelict building become Many a Moon?

It started with a holiday, sleepy companions, a dog, and an early morning walk. Anyone who has a dog knows that a morning walk, or at least a trip outside, is a necessity. On holiday with friends and a husband who all voted for more sleep and a late breakfast, the dog and I decided we would do our own early morning thing and go exploring. The dog, naturally, opted for somewhere he could be off lead, so we set off for the patch of woodland we could see from our holiday cottage. 

Unbeknownst to me and the dog, the far side of the long strip of woodland marched along the perimeter of a golf course, and the view was spectacular. On that particular morning, however, the only other thing we saw was a large iron statue of a stag. It was a startling find in the middle of a deserted wood and the dog felt obliged to bark at it. Long and loudly! Fortunately the cottages were out of earshot so only the birds and hidden woodland creatures heard him. That walk set a pattern for the rest of our holiday, however. Each morning we would leave the rest of the household sleeping and climb the hill to what, early in the morning, felt like our very own piece of woodland. 

We ventured further each day and then, when we had explored every path and glade we climbed down some rough wooden steps to the golf course below and began to walk around the edge of the nearest green. And that's when we saw it. The old mill!  Except that we didn't know it was a mill then. To us it just looked like a derelict cottage. However, several years later when we returned for another holiday, someone had fixed a blue plaque next to the gaping doorway that stated it had been a functioning grain mill in the thirteenth century. Of course I took a photo, several in fact. Then I stored them away with the rest of my numerous holiday and travel snaps and almost forgot about them. 

Almost but not quite. It was too intriguing. How was it still standing? Who had worked there? Why was it at the edge of a wood, far away from any useful road? And if it was a grain mill, where was the mill pond and the river that fed it? There was a muddy ditch, narrow enough to step across but nothing else, and surely the building wasn't big enough to store grain. Hadn't I read somewhere that mills were often next to bake houses? The questions never ended but I had nowhere to put the answers until I needed a final story for Mapleby Memories. Then everything fell into place because the curtain between the past and the present is gossamer thin in Mapleby as anyone who has read the first two books, Remembering Rose and Loving Ellen, will know.

This was all I needed to be able to travel back to the thirteenth century and immerse myself in its history and culture, and what a journey it has been, for me, and for Ellie and Will the main protagonists of the story. And for all my other characters who live in Mapleby as well because that's the thing when writing a series about a particular place. The characters intertwine, children grow older, jobs develop, friendship circles widen and it all has to be woven together in the story. So most of the characters in the first two books have walk on parts in Many a Moon.

Now the book is finished and about to be published, saying goodbye to them is almost like saying goodbye to old friends. Or children growing up and leaving the nest! I do know one thing though. When I next visit the old mill at the edge of the wood, and I will, the memory of the story will still be there. I will still be able to look out across the golf course and imagine modern day Will riding across it on his red tractor mower, the same as I will be able to imagine thirteenth century Ellen laughing and throwing sticks for her dog. They will always be with me the same as all the characters in my other books. 

And here's a taster:

......Before I could answer her I heard somebody call my name. The voice floated up from below. “Ellen, it’s ready now. Drat the girl, where…” The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a sudden gust of wind as a slim figure with two long brown plaits bouncing on her shoulders ran into a stone building at the foot of the hill.

Telling myself I really must remember that there were a lot of other women called Ellen in the world, I pointed. “Is that another chalet?”

She laughed. “No, it’s not. Come on, I’ll show you.”

We clambered down steep wooden steps built into a wooded slope and the closer we got to the bottom of the hill the louder the noise became. At first I couldn’t think what it was, then I realized it was a fast flowing river. There was another noise too. A creaking sound that I couldn’t identify. As the only way to make it to the bottom of the hill was in single file clinging onto a knobbly wooden handrail, Joanne didn’t elaborate further until we were on the grass at the edge of the golf course. Then she beckoned me to follow her along a narrow path, pushing some spindly saplings out the way until we reached a sun dappled clearing. I looked at the scene in front of me in confusion. Where was the river? Where was the building? I was too busy being confused to hear what Joanne was saying. Her concern brought me to my senses. 

“Yes. Sorry. I’m fine. I guess the climb down made me lightheaded. After years working in a city I’m not used to real fresh air the same as I’m not used to quiet.”

“A week or two living here will soon sort you out. In the meantime let me introduce you to the old mill. It’s not, as you can see, exactly suitable for a chalet.”

She was right, and I joined in with her laughter. Inside though, my stomach churned. What had just happened? Why had I seen someone called Ellen run into this derelict and almost roofless building? And why had I heard the rush of a fast flowing river when there was just a shallow ditch, dry now but probably muddy when it rained?

Joanne was too busy telling me about the mill to notice my confusion. “It was built sometime in the twelfth or thirteenth century when Mapleby was very different from the sleepy village it is today. I’m not even sure why the country club is named after it because nobody knows  anything at all about its history.” 

As we retraced our steps, I saw we were standing on the very edge of one of the greens. “What was here before the golf course?” I asked her. 

She shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Probably fields or maybe a farm. 

A Fond Memory #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Memories #Indian reservation

 

A bit of the past

 

 

Many years ago, my husband was a doctor in the Public Health Service. His first assignment was to an Indian Reservation. Not your usual one. On the grounds were the hospital, a meeting place and the houses for the two doctors. I was thinking about this the other day and had to laugh at one of my experiences.

 

Several young men helped us move in. At that time I had long dark hair, and I do mean long. One of the young men said when you hear the drums at night, they’ll come for your hair. I laughed.

 

Two nights later, the drums began. The young man came to the house and asked us to come. I knew they weren’t going to take my hair but I was curious as to what they wanted. We took our small son in his little seat and followed. Part of this was a welcome ceremony for my husband. The other was to give gifts to a young man leaving for the army.  My son loved the drums and rocked his seat in time to the beating. The women clustered around him. This presented problems later when I would put him outside for some fresh air and sunshine. He tanned easily and the sun bleached his hair blonde. I had to keep a close eye on his because he would be stolen. :The “Blonde Indian,” the pwople called him.

 

But back to the gift giving. The gifts weren’t given directly to the young amn but made their way through the gift being given to someone who then gave the gift to someone else. Always as a thank you. Finally all ended up with the young man who was leaving. This really impressed em, and I saw how close the community was to each other. I will never forget my time in the small town and the friends I made there and the stories I heard.

 

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Honoring Fathers on Father's Day by J.Q.Rose

Deadly Undertaking by J.Q. Rose

Cozy mystery

A handsome detective, a shadow man, 

and a murder victim kill Lauren’s plan for a simple life.
Click here to find more mysteries by J.Q. Rose at BWL Publishing

****

Hello and welcome to the BWL Publishing Authors Insider Blog!

My Dad
oxoxoxox

This Sunday, in the US, we honor fathers during Father's Day. I would like to take this opportunity to honor my father, Gordon.

My dad is up in Heaven tapping the piano keys playing for the angel choir or jazz band. He was a talented musician as well as a very special person, not only to me and my brothers but also to our community. He was a funeral director.

Yes, I am a funeral director's daughter, hence the premise of my romantic suspense novel, Deadly Undertaking. I used my life experiences in writing the novel. Some of the quirky characters in the story actually are people I knew!!

I am now writing a memoir and that demands that my dad is in the story. I am including an excerpt about my father in this post from the book, Arranging a Dream, to be released in January 2021.

Arranging a Dream by J.Q. Rose, Excerpt from Chapter 13

The best way to keep my dad’s memory alive and to honor him is to remember all he had instilled in me while growing up and to practice those lessons. He always pointed out the beautiful things surrounding us in nature like a wide-open prairie sunset, the glitter of the sun on a spider web, and the way the leaves on the trees flipped over before a storm. He never gossiped about anyone or badmouthed a person. He never swore, well, except the time when my brother’s class ring was not correct and the shopkeeper would not do anything to make it right.

A sense of mischief popped out in his odd sense of humor. He’d go for coffee at Turner’s, the local greasy spoon located on Route 66, where they called him Digger. He carried a measuring tape in his pocket to measure up anyone who gave him a hard time, being sure he would order the right sized casket for the jokester. 

He cared about people and appreciated the simple things in life. I wanted to be just like him as a businessperson, friend and parent. But most of all, I wanted to teach our baby daughter, Sara, the same lessons by example.

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Arranging a Dream: A Memoir
by J.Q. Rose

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HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!

J.Q. Rose, author

Click here to visit J.Q. Rose online.

The earth laughs in flowers (quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson) ...by Sheila Claydon

Click here for my books at Books We Love

I haven't had much time to write this year. Instead, sadly, I have been helping friends whose loved ones were very sick, and who have now passed away. It's been a time of sadness and several funerals but, as is always the way when someone dies, the tears have been intermingled with laughter as the good times are remembered. This was especially the case yesterday.

It was the first secular funeral I had attended so I didn't know what to expect. What I got was a day of joy. The music, which was special to the family and the deceased, was joyful, as were the very personal speeches. Nobody wore black. Instead the women were in bright dresses and the men relaxed and tieless, in shirtsleeves. The sun was warm, birds sang and it wasn't at all difficult to imagine the deceased nodding his approval, his wonderful smile wide as he saw all his family and friends together, laughing as they remembered.

And the lovely display of yellow and red family flowers, glowing like a pile of jewels on top of the coffin, made me think of the language of flowers. Red roses for passion,  red tulips for true love,  lilies and poppies for sympathy in death, pink roses and hydrangea for gratitude, iris for faith and hope, lily-of-the-valley for sweetness and purity, they carry so much symbolism. Cultures differ so much too. What might be right for one country can be wrong for another. And it's not just countries, it can even be local. In some places in the UK it is thought to be unlucky to bring bluebells into a house, whereas it is fine in other areas. Tree blossom is a no no too, as is giving anyone a single daffodil. They must always be given in bunches.  Flower lore is endless, as is the pleasure flowers bring.

My mother was a florist, so I grew up with flowers, and although by the time I was a teenager we lived in an apartment, the balcony was still full of flowers from spring through to winter, and her enthusiasm has not only rubbed off onto me, it increases with every year.  Nothing gives me more pleasure than walking around my own garden checking every new shoot, or deadheading blooms past their prime so that others can replace them. And I love the difference the seasons bring. In the early spring everything is either primrose yellow or white, then comes the blue and purple season followed by  shades of pink from the palest rose to the deepest cerise. Later the yellows return, but now mixed with orange and scarlet, then it's the evergreens and a tracery of bare branches as winter takes over...not for long though. In January the first snowdrops appear, as do the hellebores, better known as Christmas roses, and then the pink camellias start to bud.

















Loving flowers as I do is one of the reasons I wrote Bouquet of Thorns. To me, it was like going back in time to when my mother was alive and I sometimes used to help her when she had to build displays or decorate an hotel. One of my fondest and most exciting memories is helping carry boxes and pots of flowers aboard the  ocean liners that used to dock in the port city of Southampton where I was born. It was long before the days of the modern cruise ship and ocean voyages took weeks instead of days. It  was a real event for many travellers and those with wealthy friends were sent off with huge bouquets. Once my job was done I was sent down to the galley where chefs would pile a plate high with food,  and then later sent me home with boxes of chocolates or a special desert which I had to sneak out.

Now, so many years older, I have been a passenger on cruise liners to many parts of the world, but none of them, however grand, have had that old fashioned elegance and grandeur of the ships of my distant past. Happy memories, whether they are of people or of events are so precious, and if they are garlanded with the memory of flowers, then they are even more so.

One War Bride Memory

Left-Behind Bride

What about the War Brides?

Maggie Bension in the book shown was a (fictional) war bride/widow from Canada. Many other war brides came from overseas with their soldier husbands.





 

After WW1 54,000 civilians came to Canada with their soldier husbands and fathers. Although some War Brides and their children came from France and the Netherlands, most came from the UK. 

Not all War Brides were welcomed by their husband's families or communities. Many Canadian young women were anticipating finding husbands among the returning men and weren't pleased the men been "snapped up" by British women. Husbands were is short supply as 3 to 4 milliion ben were killed during the war years. (All countries.) @ 61,000 of those men were Canadians.

The young women shipped from overseas had no idea what Canada was like. They were unprepared for the open, vacant, unpopulated spaces of the Western Prairies and the crudities of life on a homestead. Many ended up in small villages so unlike home and with no other “bride” in town. Strangers alone in a strange land.

One such British bride ended up in my mother's home village of Sherbrook, Nova Scotia. My grandmother (Lena Harriet (Marshal) Ross) befriended her and they were the BFF's of the time. Unfortunately, I don't know the woman's name. But at some point, the English gal gave my mother one of the prize possessions she'd brought from England--a china tea cup and saucer made in the 1800's.

The delicate teacup came down through the family with the story and now is displayed my home. It is a reminder of the importance of friendships and reaching out to those around us. A memento of a difficult time in our history.

What family mementos do you have? And what is the story behind them?

Ever changing times—Tricia McGill

Find all my BWL titles here on my author page

 I often wonder what my mother would think if she were to return to the world as it is today. She was born over 130 years ago, so when she was a child there were horse driven buses on the roads of London. A horse drawn vehicle was still delivering the milk, bread and coal, even when I was a child. To her last days, our mother was scared of a telephone and didn’t understand how it could possibly work. It was a struggle for her to get used to her first refrigerator. She reared a huge family and kept them all as clean as she was able without a washing machine. No wonder her hands were wrinkled and her fingers bent with arthritis in her later years. I can recall when I was small that she sat in the armchair some afternoons and said, “I will just close my eyes for five minutes.” And, that was what she did, within minutes she was up and being busy again.

All these thoughts were brought to mind again because of writing my latest book; Crying is for Babies, as the story begins in 1931 when one of my sisters had just begun at school at the age of three. They started early in those days and finished usually at fourteen, when they went straight out into the workforce. There were no kindergartens or creches. If a mum had to work then a neighbour or relative would look after her baby.

My older sisters all worked in the clothing industry as I did eventually, where there would be dozens of machinists slogging away over their sewing machines. How times have changed in that department, you’d be hard-pressed to find a factory in Australia and I guess England, that produces clothing, as every item we buy nowadays is made in China, Bangladesh, or similar.

Our coal was delivered by a coal-man who hoisted a huge bag of coal onto his broad back and then opened the coal-hole in our front step, and shot the contents of the bag down into our cellar. I loved the smell of that little room. The coal had to be then brought up in the coal-scuttle to keep the fire going in the living room. Our mother would bank it up every night before going to bed with coal dust so that it was still smouldering next morning and we had at least one warm room. We could bake potatoes in the ashes, or chestnuts (Mm, I haven’t tasted a roasted chestnut in years) or sit there holding our bread to toast it by the fire.

The younger generation with their spotless homes and gadgets that

perform every task under the sun for them at the touch of a button, or the sound of their voice, don’t know what they are missing. Our whole family would get together around the fire in winter and talk about everything and anything. I’ll bet most families these days do not even spend more than a few minutes just sitting and discussing what is going on in their lives. I know of families who do not even sit together at mealtimes. I’m glad I have these memories to cherish, but what memories will they have—they are mostly staring at their mobile phones and overworking their thumbs. Even in the doctor’s waiting rooms, nobody chats to their neighbour any more as they are all too busy on their phones.

I guess as a writer I shouldn’t condemn computerised gadgets, as I could not live without my PC, but think of how the writers of years ago sat with inkpot and quill and yet managed to pen masterpieces. Even I began by scribbling my stories using a pencil on paper. When graduating to a typewriter, we had no spell-check or in-built thesaurus, which meant we had to ensure our spelling was correct the first time round, especially if we were typing carbon copies, or spend precious time going back over our work to correct any mistakes. There is no doubt the computer makes us lazy, as I tend to rely on it at times to correct me as it saves me time. One thing I have no arguments with is Google—the best thing since sliced-bread was invented. I do not have to leave the PC, get in the car, drive to the library (even though I love the place) and spend hours swatting over research manuals. I do not even have to leave the page I am working on and can have any answer I am searching for within minutes.

One thing my mother would have loved would have been a vacuum

cleaner. Imagine having to take the rugs outside to bash the dust out of them. Later she had one of those carpet sweepers that you push along, but even they did not collect all the dust left behind by many feet. Floors were scrubbed by hand—no electric mops or carpet shampooers back then. The chimney had to be swept by a professional chimney-sweep, unless you had a brother like one of ours who decided one day that he could do a better job. Imagine my mother having to clean up an inch of soot that covered everything in the whole room, including furniture, with no vac!

We certainly have it easy these days, and I love my washing machine, microwave oven, and computer, but not in that order, but there are times when I hanker for the simpler life I knew as a child growing up in the forties and fifties.

Visit my Web Page for excerpts, reviews and info on all my books

Sharing some Christmas memories from the 1960s by Nancy M Bell

This is a novella of Christmas Eve in a small town peopled by the characters from A Longview Romance series. CLick here for more info. Also available at Amazon.

Yes, I am that old! Growing up in the 1960s was a much simpler time that now. We had only black and white television and one phone in the house. It seems to me looking back that families stayed closer together, not so far flung around the country and the globe. That's not to say that Christmas like all holidays and celebrations didn't sometimes dissolve into family disputes, but generally at least we were all together. My mom's brother and his wife always came for Christmas dinner, my maternal grandparents lived with us and my older sister and her family joined us at the table as well. Our living room was not large, the expanded 'good' table took up most of the floor and to get from end to the other you were required to walk on the couch as there was no room behind the chairs at the table.

Below are some excerpts from a small chapbook I created to help preserve these old family memories for later generations.

This is one of my favourite pictures of my dad. It was taken in 1963 or 1964, you can see the remains of the Christmas feast. I'm guessing we got doctor's kits for one of our presents. LOL

The Rafter Family Christmas Eve was always a variation of the same theme.

My parents would pack up the two youngest children, myself and my sister Wendy, and set off in the car to visit my Dad’s sisters ( my aunts) who lived in various parts of Toronto and the outlying area.
My Aunt Ola and Uncle Bunny lived near Whitevale, Ontario with my cousins Rose and Fred. They lived on a farm and had the most amazing white farmhouse. The floors always were polished to diamond brilliance and I loved their kitchen. Lots of room and tons of windows, it was a wonderful welcoming place. The adults would visit and we would play with Rosie and Freddy our cousins, either outside in the snow or inside on the floor. We would drop off our gifts and receive the ones that went home to go under our tree.

After eating Christmas goodies we would all pile back into the car and head off to the next aunt’s house.

Auntie Joy and Uncle Norm lived in the west end of the city with a house full of our cousins. Glennie was the oldest and then Charlie, Suzanne, Wayne, Billy, Dennis and Brenda. There was always lots to do at Auntie Joy’s, we played games and one year when they lived in Streetsville we played in the ravine near their house and got totally covered in burrs. We were not popular children when we got home. There was great food and the cousins always had the latest in games and toys to play with. We dropped off the presents and packed the ones for us into the car and we were off again.

Next stop Aunt Loral and Uncle Bob and cousins Debbie and Lori. Aunt Loral’s was usually the last stop in the early years.

My Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy and Cindy and Tammy Lori lived in Caladar, which was up near North Bay when we were young, we would go and visit them on New Year’s Day every year. Later years they moved to Toronto, not far from Aunt Loral and we stopped there on Christmas Eve as well. Aunt Irma ( who later changed her name legally to Rocky) and Uncle Wally lived near Ottawa and we did not get to see them as often, or our cousins Gary and Scott.
Aunt Loral had a very small house and it always seemed so crammed full of Christmas. The living room was usually quite dark and the tree seemed to fill it up totally. She had the most amazing tree topper that was all the colors of the rainbow and it sent the colors all over the room, reflecting off all the walls and the front room window. As this was our last stop Wendy and I were both tired and didn’t spend too much time actually playing with Debbie and Lori. It was also getting late and near bed time so that Santa could come and leave his gifts for us. There was always time for yet more goodies and more pop. Aunt Loral always had great fruit cake at her house. Dark and moist. She also had a zillion of the little statues that used to come in Red Rose Tea. They were lined up on the top of the door frames in her kitchen and just about anywhere that you looked There were so many of them that I could never actually count them without loosing track. I liked the horse one and the gingerbread man the best. Then it was time to go home. Wendy and I usually fell asleep on the way home to West Hill in the far east end of the city. We lived with my Grandma and Grandpa Pritchard and before 1963 when she got married, my older sister June lived with us as well. There were seven of us in a little house. June had her own room, Grandma and Grandpa shared what would have been the dining room but worked quite well as a bedroom at the front of the house and Wendy and I had bunkbeds in Mom and Dad’s room.

Grandma and Grandpa were always waiting for us when we got home and Christmas Eve and helped to put the presents under the tree.
We always put the tree up on December 20th as that was my birthday. Mom and Dad never wanted to put the tree up earlier than that as we always had a real tree and they worried that it would dry out.
We had these really cool bubble lights that were all different colors but got really hot when you left them on too long. There was a fluffy white angel on top.
One Christmas Eve when we were still outside in the driveway just getting out of the car Wendy and I got a huge surprise. There, coming down the Cooney’s driveway, who were our next door neighbors, was Santa Claus!

We both screamed and then bolted for the back door. If Santa came while were still up and awake he wouldn’t leave us anything. We tore through the back door into the kitchen and down the back hall to the bedroom. With our wet snow boots and coats still on Wendy and I scrambled into bed and pulled the covers over our heads. I had a harder time getting into bed as I had to climb up into the top bunk, but I made it. Mom and Dad came in and tried to get us to take off our coats and boots and change into night clothes. Wendy and I wouldn’t budge, we were pretending to be asleep so that Santa would leave our presents. We were sure that he was coming to our house any moment because we KNEW he just next door and he hadn’t been to our house next. He must have already been to Jo-anne and John Lee’s place because they lived on the other side of the Cooneys, so we had to be next. Mom and Dad must have removed our boots after we were asleep because they were gone in the morning. And Santa did leave our presents for us that year.
Things changed in 1964, June was married and living on Homestead Ave with Butch and my brother Timmy was born in July. So Christmas 1964 was a little different. There was one more of us to track all over the city to visit my aunts.
Sometime in the 1960’s Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy and Cindy and TammyLori moved to Toronto. My Grandma and Grandpa Rafter moved from Constance Lake near Ottawa and bought a little store on Davis Lake, near Kinmount. Every winter they would come to Toronto and stay with Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy, so now we had even more excitement and visiting on Christmas Eve. We often went to Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy’s for New Year’s dinner. The turkey dressing was always yucky, it had so much sage in it ( which Gramma Rafter LOVED) and sometimes sausage. Not my favorite part of the meal I’ll tell you. There was always way too much to eat, tons of turkey and cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy.

Our Christmas dinner at home was always large. June and Butch and their sons Geoff, Peter and Terry would come. My Aunt Frances and Uncle Jim came on Christmas afternoon early and brought their sausage dog with them. The first dog I remember was Sandy who was quite portly and smelled like DOG. He would bite my dad if he tried to discipline us in front of him. We liked Sandy. Sandy would also dance with us, running around while we pranced around laughing. Aunt Frances always gave us Avon for Christmas and her packages were always decorated with cool stuff. Uncle Jim is my mother’s only brother and he has one daughter Marilyn who lives in the States. There would also be My Gramma and Grampa Pritchard who lived with us, Wendy and me and Timmy. Mom would pull the big table with all the leaves in it out into the middle of our small living room and the table would stretch from the front window to the door to the kitchen. It was set with these cool plates that we only used at Christmas, all pale yellow ,blue and pink around the edges with white roses in the centre. Mom used her good silverware that Dad bought her one year for Christmas and a tablecloth that never seemed to escape the cranberries or the gravy. Our small house was full of the smell of turkey and gravy and boiling potatoes. There never seemed to be enough room but somehow everyone managed to get seated at the table and Dad would carve the turkey. Wendy and I would fight over the drumsticks, although in later times Timmy always got one.


Lots of great memories of those no longer with us, and those who still are. As long as we remember them they are never gone, but live in our hearts.

Here are few memories from later Christmases.