They were now in their seventies, slowing physically but sharp of mind and wit, with a new twinkle in their eyes when they were asked what it was like when they were growing up in Grand Bank. Yet a little reticent and reluctant to open up about those days so long ago. "Cold," he said when asked what winter was like, hoping this one-word answer would slow the questioning. But his partner jumped at the chance to reminisce. "Banks of snow," she said. "Up to the rooftops." "No," he said. "Up to the tops of the fences." Now the game was on and she would not be slowed down. "Don't you remember we used to be over at old Mrs. Pike's after a snowfall and we could climb up on top of the snow and look in through her bedroom window?" And so it began, a long slow stroll through winter and Christmas past in the small town of Grand Bank, Newfoundland. Home of adventure and the famous Grand Bank schooner, but for a ten-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl, a world of magical white and wonder. She was the studious one who lived across from the school and paid rapt attention to whatever the teacher presented. He lived half a block away and was more likely to spend most of his school day trying to distract the rest of the students from learning anything. He sat in front of her in class and would reach behind to try and grab her books. "All you would see is two big hands grabbing at you," she laughed. They had travelled many different paths since those days, he to join the Air Force and travel the world, building family and friends along the way. She hadn't travelled as far but the world of big city Toronto was oceans away from the living and lifestyle of her early Grand Bank days. After nearly 50 years and the collective loss of their life partners they had re-found each other again on visits to their old home town. Now a secure, happy and loving couple they were reunited by their shared past and future together. They sat in the kitchen of his old house in Grand Bank, one that his grandfather had built by hand and through numerous cups of strong black tea they talked about what life was like in the way back when. Winter was a sometimes bitter and hard season in old-time Grand Bank, even if they are slow to acknowledge it. No electricity, no central heating and no indoor plumbing. Scraping the frost off their bedroom windows in the morning and waiting for the kitchen stove to spread its warmth up to their level. Most of the activity in winter was devoted to chopping, splitting and stacking firewood to fuel that kitchen stove, the black iron workhorse that was their primary source of heat and comfort. Christmas was the only break from the monotony of cold blistering winds and sleet and driving snow. There was no big build up to Christmas in those days, no countdown to show how many shopping days were left, and very few store windows to press one's nose up against. But there was a feeling, a sense of anticipation that children in Grand Bank shared with all the children of the world. It was special and it felt like it was created just for them. School, work and chores continued all the way to Christmas Eve. Then the world as they knew it became magically transformed. She looked forward to the arrival of Santa Claus with a new doll for her and a toy truck for her brother; and of course an apple, an orange, and a few candies for their stockings. He claimed not to believe in Santa Claus (we're not really sure about that) but in any case he looked forward to the slaughtering of a pig every Christmas Eve. Interesting, how boys and girls think so differently! There were other differences too. In his house they hung the Christmas tree from the ceiling in the kitchen, probably to save space for a larger family. In her house, like most others the tree stood upright in the parlour. There were a few Christmas decorations, mostly blown balls but no lights, not at least until Hydro came to town years later. But wherever it stood or hung no children were allowed to see their Christmas tree until it was ready for them on Christmas morning. On Christmas Eve they were packed off to bed early to snuggle under their ten heavy blankets and await the arrival of Good St. Nick or fresh pork, whichever came first. They scrambled awake at dawn to find their treasures and then off to church on Christmas morning. After church it was dinner time, 12 noon on the dot, featuring fresh roast pork as the main course. Maybe that's why he was so excited about killing the pig the night before. Every family in Grand Bank had roast pork for their Christmas meal, and those who were not fortunate enough to have a pig or be able to purchase their own entrée were often invited to share in somebody else's Christmas pig. After a satisfying meal of roast pork, gravy and cabbage along with whatever vegetables the family could grow themselves came the Christmas pudding. Sufficiently stuffed the adults dozed in the kitchen by the warmth of the fire while the children raced outside to show their friends what they got from Santa and to see how well their friends did. It was also time to visit the neighbours' houses, ostensibly to see their Christmas tree, which when pronounced gorgeous entitled the visitor to a glass of Purity syrup and fruitcake. On Boxing Day the adults caught up with the children in terms of fun and every young (and not-so-young) man and most of the women would begin the mummer's rounds of Grand Bank. Men outfitted themselves with women's clothing, often wearing their bloomers on the outside and women wore men's suits or old fishermen's gear. All of them covered their heads and faces with an assortment of bonnets, hats, scarves or even blankets with a hole cut in them to hide their sex and identity. Then they would bang on every door with a light on seeking entrance for a drink or a bite to eat. "Any mummers 'lowed in?" was the cry heard from doorstep to doorstep and if you didn't want your cow scared away or your root cellar uprooted, there was little choice but to let this band of roving vagabonds into your kitchen. Sometimes they would sing or dance a little for their victuals, but more often than not they took more sport in insulting the homeowner and making a fool of themselves than anything else. The drunker they got the more likely you were to be entertained, and you were also more likely to guess their identity. In which case, to the glee of all the other mummers they had to reveal themselves to their host. The mummering continued until the last of the 12 days of Christmas and by that time everyone, including the mummers, had probably had enough. Most of the legal alcohol in Grand Bank, and much of the forbidden kind from St. Pierre as well, had been swallowed up in the process. And many a mummer had been dragged home after stumbling into the back of a horse or a cow in the pitch dark, unlit streets, and having a short but very drunk nap in a snow bank before they were rudely awoken and rescued by their mates. The other highlight of the Christmas season came on New Year's Eve or "Watch Night" as they called it in Grand Bank. All of the adults and the older children would go to church on New Year's Eve night and when they returned, the entire household, even the smallest tots would be roused from their beds for a special meal of soup and pie. It was time to watch the old year pass out and by the light of the kerosene lamp in the kitchen to welcome the New Year to come. The dinner was important because it was believed that if you had a full meal on New Year's Eve then you would never go hungry throughout the year. The memories of those olden Christmas days are now fading in the twilight but for our two storytellers some are as real as if they happened yesterday. She still has a cherished Christmas doll in a place of honour in her home and he still recalls a Christmas sleigh that was lovingly made by his father when he was seven or eight. These thoughts and recollections bring a new warmth to the room where they tell their tale. Christmas today is very different in Grand Bank as it is elsewhere but the spirit of those cold days and warm hearts will live on forever. Times were much simpler then but they were rich in love and laughter and happiness and joy. Maybe that's the real spirit of Christmas after all and as long as we believe in that then Christmas will never change. Mike Martin is a freelance writer originally from St. John's, Newfoundland and now living in Ottawa, Ontario. He is the author of "Change the Things You Can" (Dealing with Difficult People) and can be reached at mike54martin@sympatico.ca   Submitted By: Mike Martin