“A cold night but we’ve seen far colder! Easy now and away” shouts Santa and the reindeer pull the sleigh up in a perfect circle above the North Pole. The coldest of Christmas Eves ever was in 1936. He had shivered so much just starting out that night, he’d thought he’d never be able to deliver all the presents before dawn.
To the moment they leave, only Santa knows where the first gift will be delivered. Last on and first off, the leading present that year was a small wooden train. Santa had made it himself. Things were scarce everywhere then and he’d had just enough black paint left for the engine. He’d made do, painting the three railcars the same red as a caboose. When the sleigh lifted and circled the pole that coldest of years, he had shouted, “To Newfoundland!”. Not even Cupid had ventured that would be their first stop and he’s the one with the most correct guesses under his jingled harness. The odd little train was bound for Thimble Harbour.
The house he knew well, it had once been full of children, several to a bed, dreaming away under piles of quilts so high and heavy the youngsters could barely move beneath the weight. Many times, over many years, he’d filled their well-darned hand knit stockings, hung at the foot of their beds, with candy and oranges. By that year, there was but one stocking to fill there. He remembered the visit very well.
The reindeer landed the sleigh easily on the frozen ground, their breath piping into the bitter cold. Santa could feel the chill through his woolen suit. He jumped from the sleigh, hopped foot to foot, and patted his legs and arms to warm himself. Looking across the small cove towards the house, he thought he saw a tiny movement in one of the upstairs windows. The stars were near perfectly cast back in the pitch-dark skim of ice on the compact harbour.
He started down the well worn path and entered a small porch full of coats, boots and three-fingered mittens. It opened to the kitchen. A daybed sat near a nearly quiet wood stove that looked held together with wire and prayers. There was little else besides two chairs and a table covered with a well scrubbed oilcloth. On it, a kerosine lamp and a small piece of brown cake, left for him, on a chipped saucer. This he carefully pocketed for later. Under the tree in the little used parlour he placed the train, tapped the top of the smoke stack with his finger and stood up.
He made his way upstairs to the foot of an iron bed. There, in the stocking tied with a loop of yarn around the bed knob he placed the requisite gifts. The small boy, like his older brothers and sisters before him was asleep under a quintal of quilts, sound to the world.
As Santa turned to leave he was surprised by the dark outline of a man in the doorway. By the light of the moon, he could see a fisherman’s face, weathered and hardened by life, labour and loss. Over his arm, a quilt, every small shred of fabric holding a piece of this family's story. It proved a simple affair, both front and back a jigsaw of larger squares of flour sacks and the like, along with many smaller oddly shaped pieces of fabric, all sewn together. Here and there, care had been taken to sew the pieces into a small patterned block. Extending his arm, the man offered the intended gift. No word spoken, only a small nod acknowledging the immeasurable generosity and its acceptance.
Behind the reins again, Santa unfolded the quilt over his lap. Imbued with warmth, a rampart against the cold. He cried, “Easy and away” and the reindeer lift the sleigh back into the night.
And so…..now I’m crying.