Author Matthew Heneghan

I’m always a little sad when the splendor of Christmas comes to an end. To me, it feels like that favorite relative leaving to go back home for another long year before visiting again. I’ve always loved Christmas this way. There’s something about the sparkle of a bulb, the glint of a Christmas light, the rich aromas that fill kitchens in homes all over — it’s just a magical time of year. Unlike any other.

Earlier today I found myself in town; the stores still bespangled by decorations and shoppers. Perhaps the only notable change is the bevy of “SALE” signs that now loiter atop the goods, calling out to passersby with the same zeal as the homeless guy that sits on the corner of Fifth avenue. I’m not making a judgement, he’s just always there. Same tattered cardboard sign that reads “Money for food.” I’ll admit, I’ve tossed him a couple of dollars every now and then. I even bought him some lunch once; a burger and fries. He thanked me, and then as I pulled out of the parking lot, I watched the dishevelled man discard of his gifted culinary procurement in the trash. Maybe he’s a vegetarian?

Around noon, I made my way to my favorite coffee house. It flirts with the outskirts of downtown, but still boasts modest crowds during its busier times. Fortunately for me, it was near to empty when I arrived. I grabbed a coffee, stir-stick, and some creamers before settling into a spot by the window. Winter has been unseasonably warm this year, so the typical winter landscape has instead been replaced by a varying cornucopia of browns, yellows, and faded greens. Outside I observed a lowly baron tree, arthritic and jagged adorned by a single red bow. It was wind-whipped and lacked most of the Christmas charm it once proudly held.

I poured the creamer into the blackness of my coffee and watched as a swirl of tan overtook the dark. Listlessly I played with the stir-stick waiting for my coffee to cool. The bell above the door came to life with the entry of a father and his son. I glanced toward the noise and couldn’t help but to overhear the boy explaining to his father that he wished they could go sledding “like last year.”

…Last year… a much snowier winter indeed.

In hearing him bemoan to his father I was tickled by a sudden rumination of my own. I recalled a Christmas of 1994. The rolling hills of my hometown were blanketed by thick swaths of powdery snow. Fields of alabaster gleaned beneath the kiss of street-lamps and wayfaring headlights of passing automobiles. My friends and I were raucously descending then ascending the curvaceous slopes of Fly Hills. We’d cordoned off an area just for us and with zealous repetition we flew down the snowy slope with reckless abandon. Not a care in the world sat within us. Not even the cold slap of a winter’s night air. We were fearless. It felt like hours that we had been sledding, taking turns using each other’s plastic snow-riders and toboggans. It was during a lull in our youthful excitement when we first saw it — accented in a royal blue and flawless white and caressed ever so slightly by a yellow lining; the Noma GT Snow Racer Brett Hull addition! With a cutting-edge curved ski-system and shock absorber, sturdy steel frame and a race-car steering wheel, this was the apex of all snow descenders. At least, it was at the age of ten.

If you were lucky enough to get one, it even came with a signed poster by the hockey legend himself, Brett Hull. This was the top tier racer, and every kid wanted one. Myself included. I didn’t bother mentioning this to my mother, at least, not often. She’d been sick that year, and we didn’t have much in the way of money. I had already received the “Christmas isn’t about presents” talk. While it’s true, Christmas is certainly not about the material things — to a ten-year-old, it most definitely plays a pivotal role in the majesty of the season.

Drew, Harvey, Robbie, and me just gawked at that masterful piece of snow carving engineering. Even the sound it made as it gripped and tore through the snow, it was like the skillful bowing of a violin being played. I was hypnotized with glorious urchin envy. It was a father and his two boys that were the lucky proprietors of that Noma GT. After watching them race downward several times, our ratty instruments of snow play seemed benign and childish. We simply packed up and went back home.

Five days later it was Christmas morning. I woke up just as the sky was turning a steely blue. Thick, ruffled clouds meandered above, and snow gently fell with a rhythmic sway before getting lost in the white abyss of the snow-covered streets. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, grabbed my hefty ebony framed spectacles, and made my way to the living room. At ten, I was skeptical of Santa’s status in the world, but if you had seen what I did that mystifying Christmas morning, you could be ten, or twenty and STILL hold belief in Santa Claus. Beneath the sparsely decorated tree rested a heaping pile of wrapped packages and decorative boxes with bows on them. I didn’t know it at the time, and I’d only learn later on that our local church had donated money to my mother so that she could bless us with a splendid Christmas morning — and she certainly did.

After my mother woke-up and came downstairs, the festivities were underway. Throngs of ribbon, cardboard, and delicate sheets of coloured translucent paper strewn about the living room. I couldn’t believe how many things had been addressed for me. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor; mounds of Christmas shrapnel surrounded me. I smiled at all my fortunes; G.I. Joe action Figures, Biker Mice from Mars toys, chocolates, replica blasters from sci-fi movies. I was the luckiest kid in town. Or so I thought…

My mother requested that I go and answer the door. I hadn’t heard anyone knock, so I was a little slow to respond. She asked again, a little more sternly this time. Still weighted by confusion, I got up and went to the door. I turned the lock, twisted the knob and opened the door. To my surprise, there was one more gift-wrapped package — and it was once more addressed to me. I tried to pick it up, but it was a bit too heavy to simply heave it around, so I dragged it into the house like a war-casualty.

I peered up at my mother, who was sipping her tea and smoking her 3^rd morning cigarette, almost as if to ask if I should open it. Her smile granted permission. Steam now coated the lenses of my glasses, but that did little to prevent my rapturous hands from tearing through the ornamental paper. Through a small hole in the steam that stained my glasses, I could see that I had made my way to a box. There was writing on it. I removed my cumbersome spectacles and gave them a quick rub on my shirt before placing them back over my ears and nose. My eyes began to wander the branded box before me.

“NOMA GT SNOW RACER now with signed BRETT HULL POSTER inside!”

My mouth fell open. My eyes grew to four time’s their size. My pulse quickened, and my heart pounded gleeful beats inside my little chest.

“Holy Christmas! That’s… That’s…” Before I could finish, my mother called out.

“…The one you wanted.” After hearing her, I turned and ran to her, exclaiming that it was indeed the one I had wanted. The one I now had.

Many hills were sleighed and slayed by that Noma GT Brett Hull edition racer of mine.

To this day, through to my sitting in a quaint coffee shop at the age of forty, that is still one of my favorite childhood memories. Even more so now that my mum is gone. I guess, in a way, Christmas never really goes away. It stays within us, sewn to the memories of magical moments. A gift that will forever keep on giving.

I smiled. Finished my coffee, and went home to my family.

Merry Christmas everyone.