The Bridge with Peter Mansbridge - Your Turn - Your Christmas Memories

Episode Date: December 21, 2023

Your letters this week are very moving, your memories of holidays past for family and friends. I thank you for all of them. I'll read as many as I can today and I'll pick one to be the recipient of the new book by Mark Bulgutch and myself, "How Canada Works". And of course the Random Ranter with his take on this time of year. 

And hello there, Peter Mansbridge here. You are just moments away from the latest episode of The Bridge. Your Christmas memories. It's holiday time and lots of your memories have been coming in in the old mailbag this week. That and the random ranter coming right up. And hello there, Peter Mansbridge in Stratford, Ontario. A couple of days ago, I asked for some of your memories of this holiday time of year. And you didn't disappoint. They've been coming in by the boatload, the truckload, the carload all week. Obviously, I can't read them all. And there's a lot of long ones here.

I plea every week, keep your letters short. Doesn't work. And some of these really need the full story. So I better get right at it if I'm going to get to these. As promised earlier in the week, the one I sort of deemed the most interesting or the best, if you want to use that term, will get a book, the new book,

How Canada Works by Mark Boguch and myself, number four on the bestseller list again this week. Very happy to be there and hope you get a chance to pick up a copy. I think you'll find it well worth it. Okay, let's get right to the letters. Not all of them make it onto the broadcast. Sad to say, all of them could because there's just some fabulous ones. I'll read as many as I can.

Okay, so the first one comes from Taryn Beck in Upper Beaches, Toronto. My most vivid Christmas memory was the year I was around eight. It was in 1981. My parents had separated earlier in the year, and my younger brother and I were struggling with the changes to our family. I remember being sad and anxious leading up to Christmas morning. Christmas morning, our mom told us we had to stay in our rooms with our stockings until we were called. When she finally called us, we ran to the living room to see what Santa had brought and found our dad sitting waiting for us in front of the tree. Him being there and the four of us being together was the best gift ever.

My parents put aside their anger and hurt towards each other, and we had a great morning and lifelong memory. Fast forward 25-ish years to when my daughter was four and her dad and I were no longer together. He and I agreed to always spend Christmas morning together, the three of us, and we did. I remembered how special that Christmas was for me and made sure my daughter had the same. Sadly, her dad passed away in April at the age of 50. This will be our first year, just the two of us. Families come in all shapes and sizes hold each other close

take the pictures make the memories and be kind to one another thanks taryn thank you for for sharing that anne marie Klein in Toronto. One of my favorite holiday memories comes not from home, but from my last 20 years of teaching, grades four to six. I started a tradition one year on the last day of class that turned out so well it continued until I retired in 2019. I supplied the graham crackers, cake frosting,

and a couple of bags of Smarties and gummy bears, and each student had to bring a small plate from home on which to build their gingerbread house and any candy favorites to decorate the structure with. What I found each year was that my groups always shared and traded their goodies with one another, resulting in some colorful and original construction ideas. Some years the class insisted on voting for the best of in different categories, while others took their gingerbread houses home as a gift for their parents. But mostly it was an afternoon of relaxing with classmates and friends

while using their geometry knowledge creatively before breaking out the board games to finish the term on a light note. Chris Redhead, a reedhead from Sutton, Ontario. My favorite tradition was gathering as a large family at my grandparents' house every Christmas day. No one missed it. They would travel from across the province.

The meal was excellent, especially the dessert buffet. All homemade classics from my grandmother. I've continued to make some of her recipes for a variety of situations. That's my way of keeping her memory going. Unfortunately, they were the glue of the family. Since passing, we haven't gotten together as a large family, with others moving to other provinces and some others no longer with us. My wife and I are trying to start our own traditions,

so I'll be tuning in Thursday for inspiration. Well, there's lots of it here. Chris, keep listening. And you'll see a theme that runs through this. It's about family. And it's about the changing nature of family. People pass on. People move on.

The country in many ways has gotten bigger, not smaller, because of the ability to move around. Marie-Claude Fagnon. Here's my anecdote. She's in Burlington, Ontario. Here's my anecdote from the holiday season, which will stay with me forever. At the start of the 2001 school year, I was hired as a substitute teacher in a Hamilton area school, as the regular teacher was due to return from maternity leave after the Christmas

vacations. I've just arrived from Quebec, where I taught French to grade 12 students. I found myself teaching a paired grade of 4-5. I was definitely not in familiar territory. I had a beautiful class, full of engaged and full of bean students. Officially, I was the teacher, but they were also my teachers. They were very patient and very kind to me. I was more familiar with the older pupils and had to learn how to dose my homework better, among other things. One evening after school, my principal at the time came to me with a copy of a letter to

Santa that one of my fourth graders had written while at the daycare. The little boy wrote, Santa, what I want as a present this year is to keep my teacher for the whole school year. A few days before the Christmas vacation, the principal came to talk to my class. She told the students that Santa had phoned her to tell her that a student had made a very special request. That's when she asked if a student had really made a special request for Christmas. I can still see that little boy raising his hand and saying, I think it was my letter that Santa Claus was talking to you about. To which the principal replied that it was indeed his request

and that Santa thought it was a great idea. So he decided that I would stay for the whole school year with my fourth, fifth grade class. The students cheered and applauded and I cried. In the meantime, a permanent kindergarten teaching position had become available at the school, and the teacher I'd been replacing had agreed to take on the job when she returned in January. It was one of the most moving moments of my career. I still have that letter to Santa Claus in my school memory box, among cards and other precious souvenirs. To this day, I'm still very grateful to the daycare director for taking the trouble to inform and give a copy of the letter to Santa to my boss.

And I'm equally grateful to my principal for making it an unforgettable moment. Marie Claude unforgettable moment. Marie-Claude. Cindy Duchesne Geroux from Beaumont, Alberta. I'm listening to you now on December 18th. Thank you for all you do. My best memory was at the age of 10. I was at my grandpa's turgeon in Windsor, Ontario for Christmas Eve, 1969. This memory is precious.

My mother had brought us to be with her parents, her four sisters, and one brother. I was excited. My father had joined a cult, and we could no longer celebrate Christmas, so being allowed to come here on Christmas Eve was a miracle. My three siblings and I were put to bed. I lay awake on my grandmother's bed and listened to my mother, grandparents, and her siblings play euchre. Their laughter, their screams of delight, and choice swear words as they won or lost a hand was music to my ears. I snuck out of bed and went down to the Christmas tree. In front was a manger that was lit up by an angel on top. I was mesmerized by that. I must have sat there for hours just

watching and listening to my family. I don't remember going back to bed, but I do remember everything up until then. I miss my family. Thanks for reading. Merry Christmas. Cindy in Beaumont, Alberta. This one comes from, well let's see, who does it come from? It comes from Barb Pratt. And she's in Manitoba. It was December 1955, and I had just turned eight. We lived in isolated rural Manitoba bush country,

10 miles south of McGregor, with no electricity and no telephone. If I remember correctly, McGregor is kind of central Manitoba, south-central Manitoba, south central Manitoba, right along the Trans-Canada Highway. Although we had a car and we had been snowed in since early October with no hope of having the roads plowed for months, the snow was unbelievably deep that December. My sister and I plodded, bundled up in our parkas and snow pants, single file, on our carefully trodden trail through the bush.

It was a mile and a half to our one-room Claremont school. Along some wind-sheltered stretches, we couldn't keep up with the packing on the trail, so we had to roll over the snow banks to keep from sinking in. Although we were dreadfully poor, we were warm and well-fed. We had our winter supply of firewood for heating and cooking, and we had lots of food from our garden, our chickens, and our milk cow. My parents must have fretted about how they could brighten our Christmas with presents.

Even a mail order from the Eden's Catalog was out of the question. That was the big deal in those days, and for a while. The Eden's Catalog. I remember it. Having no horses, my dad hitched a ride to town with a neighbor who had a team and a sleigh. Dad needed to buy the basics, coffee, sugar, salt, and yeast. We had no expectations of any gifts. Then, to our amazement, Christmas morning, my sister and I woke to kitchen bowls filled with peanuts, one mandarin orange, and our presents. Two yellow pencils, a pink eraser, a Hilroy scribbler, and an eight-pack box of Crayola crayons.

Sending warm thoughts for a Merry Christmas. P.S. I still like yellow pencils. Okay, what do we got here? This is from Anne McKenzie in West Vancouver. My favorite Christmas memory happened about 30 years ago when we were enjoying an extended family Christmas dinner at my parents' home in Georgetown, Ontario. The year was 1934. Mom was 10 years old. It was December 24th. Her father had dropped her off at the local department store in Hamilton, Ontario.

I think it was called Robinson's. Her instructions were to do her shopping, then take a bus home. When entering the store, she immediately found the perfect gift for her dad, a lady's long-handled brush he could use to brush her hair. Next, she found little metal trucks for her younger brothers. Again, perfect gifts. She spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the perfect gift for her mother, but to no avail. At the department store, she decided to buy her mother a fillet of trout. Fillet. Fillet.

Trout. She saw in the store window, but unfortunately she didn't have enough money left to buy it. She negotiated with the fishmonger, giving him what was left of her allowances along with her bus token. She walked home, and the next day, while the rest of the family enjoyed a turkey dinner, her mother enjoyed her fish. My mom died last June at the age of 99 years. She loved Christmas.

I miss her. Nice. See what I mean about the thread through all this is family, right? Sue Bartleman is in Toronto. My holiday memory is this. I couldn't have been more than four or five years old. I was living in Galt, Ontario. That's now Cambridge.

And me and my sisters were doing some kind of craft on the dining room table, and I needed a scrap piece of material. Back in those days, my mom made a lot of our clothes and always had a bag of fabric scraps stored over in the corner of the dining room on the floor. Well, Mama had four kids. She was a busy mom for sure, A three-year-old, me, a six-year-old, and a 13-year-old. I asked if I could look through the bag and grab a few scraps, and she told me to hang on a minute. But I wasn't having it, and what felt like minutes was

probably only seconds. I headed over the bag, and I started digging. As I reached around, I suddenly uncovered a partially made Raggedy Ann doll. I could tell it was something Mom was making and was trying to hide as it was buried deep into the bag of scraps. I quickly knew I shouldn't be seeing that, covered it up, and hightailed it back to my spot at the table. Days and weeks passed, and I didn't mention it once. Well, Christmas morning came, and guess who got the raggedy and doll? Me. And guess who it was from? Santa.

Now, I believed in Santa at the time, and I suddenly was awash with pure devastation that Santa didn't exist and a huge amount of guilt that my mom would find out that I didn't believe because I had hastily headed to that fabric scrap bag that day. So what happened? I faked it. I pretended that I believed it was Santa. I could tell my mom was thrilled and of course I loved the doll. But it certainly held a moment in time that I would never forget. I still have that Raggedy Ann doll, 57 years old now. I finally told mom about the memory sometime in my 40s. She couldn't believe it. Mom rehabilitated Raggedy Ann over the years,

and I've given that doll to my gal who is now a teenager. Quite a day, quite a memory. By the way, I still believe in Santa. This one comes from Janice Aykroyd in Raymond, Alberta. This story happened on a day just before Christmas 2018. My husband and I were planning to deliver plates of treats to the closest of our friends that evening. And as I was waking up that morning, into my mind came a scene I had witnessed at our congregation's fall activity. We had a pancake breakfast outside at our outdoor pavilion, and for a treat, I took a jar of chokeberry syrup. Towards the end of the breakfast,

I looked up and saw Patrick R. shaking the empty jar, trying to get the very last drop of that syrup onto his pancake as if he would like to wring the jar. It made me laugh. We had at the time before Christmas three small jars of chokeberry syrup in our pantry. I'd intended them to be jelly, but they had refused to gel. I asked Jim what he thought we should do with them since he loves chokeberry and had asked for jelly. He thought I should empty the jars and cook the syrup over since we already had syrup. I knew if I were to make jelly again, I would just start from scratch with chokeberry juice, which I did, and those small jars just sat there taking up room in the pantry. As I woke up that December morning with that vision of Patrick in my head, it seemed

like a sign. I decided that I could happily give those jars to him. I tied some curly red and green ribbon around the lid of each jar and stuck a Christmas sticker on top. Then I bagged them and added them to the collection of Christmas cookies we were taking out that night. It was dark as I rang the doorbell. When his wife came to the door, I held out the bag and said I had come to give it to Patrick. She called him and then looked into the bag. Her mouth fell open when she saw what was in there. With round eyes, she asked in wonderment, how did you know? She told me that Patrick had lost his job two years before and was having difficulty finding another. In addition, he had a serious health problem and had just received some troubling news about it.

As they sadly drove home from the doctor's appointment, he had said, for Christmas, all I want is chokeberry syrup. She tried to find some, but it is not to be had commercially. She tried at least one friend who she knew made chokeberry syrup at home, but her friend had none. She went to the grocery store to at least look. The closest thing she found was raspberry syrup, so she bought that jar. Patrick looked at it sadly and thanked her for trying, but raspberry syrup was just not the same. I had known nothing about the situation, but that God who watches over us all did know. And he also knew I had those three jars of syrup. He showed me that Patrick needed that syrup in a way I could understand.

I said, Patrick can be certain that God knows and loves him. This family considers this their Christmas miracle and revisit the story together each Christmas. I take no credit at all for my part in the miracle. Christmas is a time of miracles. Jordan Sampson is in Toronto. My Christmas memory goes back to 1992. I was five years old.

Our family was moving to Mississauga in mid-December. There was a problem with the moving company, and some of our boxes didn't make it to our house and were not going to until the new year. Our Christmas decorations were among the delayed boxes. This was devastating to my mom who was extremely passionate about the holiday season. Traditionally Christmas could be found in every room in our house. Instead of going out and buying all new Christmas decorations for one season, my creative mom produced a solution. As a family, we started cutting our cardboard moving boxes into Christmas shapes, bells, holly, Santa Claus, reindeer, presents, etc., etc. There must have been a couple of hundred

of them by the end of it. My dad ran to the hardware store, bought a few cans of gold and silver spray paint. We then painted them all gold and silver and added a bit of twine to hang them. We even cut a large star and placed it at the top of our real tree. It's funny how something so simple could be so memorable. To this day, 31 years later, I remember it so vividly. 20 years ago, I lost my mom to cancer. To honor her memory at Christmastime, my kids and I make a cardboard Christmas ornament and spray paint it gold and place it on the tree. I hold back tears every year. Oh boy.

Some of these letters are great. Family. Chris Fry. Where is Chris? He's originally from St. John's, Newfoundland. He's writing now from his home in Ottawa. My favorite Christmas association may admittedly be a little unusual for some. It's the humble Pringle potato chip. This is our first Christmas as a family without my grandmother, Lucy,

who passed away last month after 89 vibrant years of life. Tiny but mighty and bursting at the seams with personality. She was our boisterous, outgoing and opinionated North Star and the natural focal point of any room that she was in. To not look for her around the table this year will surely be a challenge. Several years ago, while navigating the bustle of the season in anticipation of a flight home for the holidays, I spoke with her on the phone and made passing mention of having completed some shopping for stocking stuffers for the family.

Did you, she asked with piqued curiosity, did you get any Pringles? A pause for emphasis, because I love Pringles. Our Lucy was indeed many things subtle, as you can likely discern, was not among them From that point forward, it became a running joke for our family that Nan needed to get her Pringles for Christmas Every year, she would be inundated with every flavor The seasoning of the season arriving in her stocking under the tree in the mail from my friend Kevin in Edmonton. Last year she reported that surely she had enough Pringles on hand to last her until she was gone. We found many things in her apartment while sorting her affairs after her passing. Letters of courtship from the early days of her romance with my late grandfather,

metal biscuit tins filled with every manner of sewing and knitting needle, naturally. Every greeting card anyone had ever taken time to give to her. The Pringles, as it turns out, had all been enjoyed. Chris Fry in Ottawa. I'll never look at a can of Pringles again without thinking on that letter. Rick Draper from Port Howe, Nova Scotia. It was 1956. I was five years old, and yes, I can remember it like it was yesterday. We lived on Elm Street in Woodstock, New Brunswick. My older brother Bobby had enlisted that year in the army. Yes, the army. That's what

they called it back then. This would be the first time he would not be home for Christmas. He was stationed in Petawawa, Ontario with no car and very little money, so taking the bus or train was not an option. It was late Christmas Eve and I sat in the hallway window and stared into the winter storm that arrived earlier in the day. I could barely see as the cars passed by. Then one of them stopped at the end of our driveway. The door opened and a man in uniform stepped out of the car. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was my big brother Bobby. He'd hitchhiked in full uniform all the way from Ontario to be home for Christmas. Rick Howe in

Port Howe. Excuse me, Rick Draper in Port Howe, Nova Scotia. Okay, here we go from Sal Gwinnett. I was born and raised in Amman, Jordan. In that predominantly Muslim country, there was and still is a healthy Christian minority, of whose some were our neighbors. That said, my parents were very aligious, my father particularly so. So here we were, early 1980s, a family with two girls in an obviously Christian neighborhood in a very Muslim country. My father refused to celebrate anything, and I love him dearly for that,

but he must have seen the look of awe as his daughters watched twinkling lights, sang very off-key jingle bells in Arabic, and shared the neighboring kids' anticipation of Santa's arrival. So, the Christmas I was five or six, I recall waking up to a doll dressed in red with a white cap left by the bedroom window. My father said, Santa did not find a chimney or a vent, so he left your present by the window. My younger sister received a stuffed animal. Every Christmas since, I think of that doll, not because it was a particularly special one, but because my father, who did not want to adhere to any religious traditions, went out of his way to make his girls happy. It was a one-time gift. Santa must have read the sign on our door, no religion here. It

still left me with the joy of making those we love happy. I'm very much like him in my convictions, but I took on this season as a special opportunity to make those close to us know that they matter. Salon Gwinnett in Victoria, British Columbia. Derek Dillabo in Ottawa. I'd like to tell you about the most meaningful Christmas morning I've ever had. My father was a policeman in Oshawa in the 1960s. Sadly, he was stuck with cancer at the young age of 34 and passed away. He left a young wife and four young children ages 10, 6, 4, and 2. It was, of course, a trying and confusing time for the

whole family, and as much as my mother tried to make Christmas Eve happy, it was still a lonely and sad time. However, on Christmas morning, when all of us children got up, we could scarcely believe our eyes. Members of the Oshawa police had delivered enough presents to almost fill our house. I remember a giant stocking bigger than the tree filled with different toys and goodies. I vividly remember what a joy it was to filled with different toys and goodies. I vividly remember what a joy it was to play with those toys with my siblings and receive such generosity that day. Those wonderful policemen continued to check in on us over the years, making sure that we were all doing well or if we needed any help with anything around the house.

Police forces around the country are filled with men and women just like this, and frankly, they do not get enough credit for protecting our safety in the stressful and sometimes dangerous job that they do. When you see an officer this Christmas, shake his or her hand and thank them for the great job they do for us. Those men in blue in Oshawa in the 1960s are typical of 99% of all police in the country. Thinking of them still brings a tear to my eye. Thanks, Derek.

Let's see if we can get another one in before we take a break. I'm never going to get to all these letters. There's just so many great ones here. Mike and Margaret Friatt in Chase, British Columbia. My sister-in-law did not expect to spend part of her Christmas Eve at the Burnaby dump and could not possibly have anticipated that this would be the outcome of a very generous impulse. Weeks earlier, Kathy and husband Colin had offered to drive to our small

caribou cattle ranch to harvest Christmas trees for family and friends. Temperatures unexpectedly plummeted to the minus 30s that weekend, but undeterred, they set off with my husband Mike, returning hours later with a lovely selection of trees. The trees were frozen solid and too brittle to be packed into the canopy of the truck without snapping off branches. What to do? Bringing them inside overnight to thaw and then wrapping them in a baler twine to take up less space seemed the best solution. In retrospect, this was not the best idea, but we did not know it at the time and sent the young couple off to deliver their cargo. Tree recipients were delighted, and for the first few days, the trees looked fabulous. Then the needles started to drop and didn't stop until the trees were nothing but bare branches

covered in lights and ornaments. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry. Kathy was devastated, and the biggest problem was the tree they had taken to her mother's house. Muriel was especially fond of Christmas, and her home was always beautifully decorated. The Charlie Brown tree was just not going to cut it. This brings us back to the dump. When in desperation Kathy and Brother Peter ventured out late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve to find a replacement tree,

all the lots were empty. Unsold trees had been collected and discarded at the city dump. They found the trees, all right, but each tree had been cut in half before being tossed into a huge pile. Eventually they found two pieces that fit together. A kind and very handy next-door neighbor helped them secure the two pieces with some doweling and wire, and it was just enough time to transfer the decorations before company arrived. I don't think anyone realized that the lovely tree they were looking at had been cobbled together from spare parts. As we decorate our tree each year, I think of my clever and creative brother and sister-in-law,

scrambling through the dump in the dark, trying to find just the right pieces to create some Christmas magic for their mom. They are special people. I'm glad they are a part of my life. Okay. You know what it's time for?

Before the break, it's time for the Random Ranter and his Christmas thoughts. Right? So, let's get her at her. Here he is, the Random Ranter, for this week, for this special week. Here we go.

This holiday season, I want to send a shout out to all the Ukrainian refugees out there. Welcome to Canada and welcome to Christmas in December. That's right. It's official. That second round of carbs affectionately known as Ukrainian Christmas is no more. The Ukrainian church has turfed the Julian calendar and joined the rest of us for Christmas on December 25th instead of January 7th. And I, for one, think that's great. I mean, I love pierogies. And if you've ever been curious about Christmas cabbage,

here's your opportunity to find out. Now, personally, I'm not much of a Christmas guy. My favorite way to celebrate is to figure out how to do it where I don't have to change out of my pajamas. But that doesn't mean I don't like Christmas. It just means I like it really small and low key. But of course, I haven't always gotten my way. So over the years, I've celebrated through the lens of a number of different European cultures, from Scottish to German to French, and even a truly memorable Christmas Eve Italian feast of the seven fishes. I've had meatballs the size of softballs, melt-in-your-mouth shortbread, and I've run the full gambit of sausages. I mean, I've had dinners where the turkey was the star and dinners where the turkey was the absolute finishing blow.

But Christmas isn't just about the food. It's about charity. It's about love. It's about kindness. And to varying degrees, depending on your family, drama and chaos. Personally, my childhood Christmas memories are a real mixed bag. The highlight? My frail, gentle German grandfather dressing up as Santa. He was the skinniest Santa ever. And that cotton ball beard wasn't fooling anybody. But I loved every second of it, and just thinking of it brings a smile to my face,

and perhaps even a tear. The low light? That would be drunken relatives trying to play accordions. And well, it was the 70s. So definitely all the cigarette smoke. But I just want to take this time to thank everyone out there for putting up with me on Thursdays. And I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas,

a Happy Holiday, and a most wonderful new year. Wow, the rancher went all out and adapted his music, the holiday music, yes, sir. Okay, quick break, and we're back with the final batch of your letters, and great letters they are this week. Back right after this. And welcome back. Peter Mansbridge here in Stratford, Ontario. You're listening to The Bridge on Sirius XM, Channel 167, Canada Talks, or on your favorite podcast platform. We had a lot of letters this week. So, so many. I'd already pared them down to what I thought were some of the best,

but we're not going to get through them all. There are just so many. But let me get through as many as I can here before we sign off for this Thursday. This one comes from Kelly Taylor in Oromocto, New Brunswick. One of my most significant Christmas memories comes from my time spent in Afghanistan. It was Christmas Eve 2006, and I was working with Canadian Forces Personnel Support Agency,

civilians that work with DND, at Kandahar. My husband, who was in the military, and my two teenage boys were back home in Canada. This would be our second Christmas apart, the first being when my husband was on tour in Bosnia in 1997. I remember sitting on the boardwalk in Kandahar on Christmas Eve, wondering what had ever possessed me to go over there, feeling sorry for myself and missing my family horribly.

There was no Christmas lights, nor presents, and no tree. I was alone on the boardwalk looking up at the stars listening to the absolute silence for the first time in what seemed like forever there were no sounds of helicopters or planes overhead there was no sirens telling us of an impending rocket attack just silence something in me shifted that night and i was almost overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude gratitude for the opportunity to be a part of something bigger than myself. Gratitude for the soldiers that were fighting out in the forward operating bases. For the support of my family while I was away.

And most of all, I was grateful for all the people in my life. Both back home and those that I had met on that tour, and for this amazing country that we live in. Sounds so hokey, but that Christmas truly taught me when the season, what the season was really all about. And I'm thankful for that. I've never forgotten that feeling. And every Christmas since I have replayed it in my mind. Thank you, Kelly. 2006, I was there in Kandahar that year as well. Not for as long as you were, obviously, but I have that image in my mind of where you were on the boardwalk, what you were doing, and what you were thinking. Joanne Bamford in Wayne Fleet, Ontario. to share one of my favorite family memories as a child. Every Christmas season, my parents would take my brother and I to see the wondrous windows all dressed up at the Edens and Simpsons downtown stores in Toronto. Oh, there were toys, often with moving parts, beautiful wintry scenes, candy canes, and Santas. I think my parents enjoyed the scenes as much as we did. It was

a simpler time, the 60s and 70s, but those special moments gave me a lifetime of childhood memories. No amount of money or gifts could replace these and those wonderful moments. Just the four of us watching in wonder the Christmas windows of Eden's and Simpson's department stores. Yeah, I don't know whether there are many nights you can do that in the heart of downtown Toronto now, right in areas where some of the things that go on at night in

that area are not pretty or safe. Marilyn Sewell in Paris, Ontario. I'm just back from the wonderful annual tradition of the elementary school concert. There's always one or two kids who actually get to shine with their voices or dance moves or just being in the spotlight. As a child attending a one-room school in rural Ontario in the 60s, it was the most anticipated event. Somebody's dad would bring in a tree

and we could actually use class time to make decorations and practice our parts. As I got older, I got wise to the fact that somebody's dad would be missing at the end of the night amazingly just before Santa arrived. Everyone received an orange and candy. We were all equals that night. As a parent of three, we endured the stress of getting the kids fed and rushing to get a seat to have our hearts filled with pride and joy. Now, as a grandmother of three young girls in school, I wouldn't miss it for the world. Okay, I've got to skip through a couple here.

I'm never going to make it. Okay, Carrie Salata in Toronto. My grandmother, Estella Salata, was a fairly well-known Canadian children's author and wrote a national bestseller, Mice at Center Ice. It was a book that was taught in elementary school curriculums across the country and became a CBC animated film. What could be more Canadian than a story about mice and rink rats settling the score through a game of hockey to win the prize cheddar cup? On November 20th, Estelle passed away at the age of 97. She was, to steal the title from your book, an extraordinary Canadian. While I was sitting in

her memorial service listening to all the wonderful stories about my grandmother, I realized that this will be my first Christmas without her. My grandmother loved annual family traditions, from our secret family pierogi recipes, to singing out of tune Christmas carols to making hirustas. We did it all. As a family I don't know, I clearly probably did not pronounce that correctly but I know somebody will tell me. One of my favorite holiday traditions that Estelle started about 70 years ago was making and decorating Christmas cookies with her children. The Christmas cookies had to have a little hole in each of them before baking. Once the cookies were done, a string went through the little hole to hang them on the Christmas tree like an ornament.

Each time any kid from the neighborhood visited the Salada residence, they could pick a cookie from the Christmas tree, spreading joy and love for the holiday. The family tradition is still alive to this day, and it is something we're teaching to my four-year-old daughter, Estelle's great-granddaughter. We're going to miss Estelle, and this year will be especially difficult for all of us. You know, family traditions,

like getting the family together at Christmas, it's obvious that the more these traditions last, the people around the table are going to be different each year or almost every year. But remembering those who sat there before is such an important part of family traditions, right? Okay, where are we here? Got to get to Got to remember to do the winner, right?

So I got to time this out properly John Broden in Toronto A few days before Christmas First of all, he says John Broden in Toronto. A few days before Christmas, first of all, he says, from the ages of seven and nine growing up in Montreal in the 70s, lots of snow fell around Christmas. A few days before Christmas,

my eldest sister had me write a letter to Santa and stuff it in a snowbank outside our front doors. Lo and behold, after a few anxious moments, maybe an hour or so, I returned to the same spot to find Santa's handwritten response to my note. Excited to know we'd soon leave him cookies and milk, and he'd ho-ho-ho his way back with deary friends to draw presents to us and millions of other kids. Thanks, Susan, for the sweet memories. It's John using the bridge to thank his sister. Love that.

I have many stories to tell, but one of my drives home sits high on my list. This from Michael Artendale in Sudbury. I was in the Navy and served in Halifax and Esquimalt. Every year around this time I would head home to visit my father who lived in North Bay. This particular time, about 15 years ago, a massive snowstorm hit the east coast and I lived in Halifax. Typically my drive is 20 hours with an overnight stop in Riviere du Loup. When I left Halifax, it started to lightly snow. By the time I got to the New Brunswick border, I had slowed down due to the storm. Passing Fredericton, I had slowed to below 60 clicks and was in whiteout conditions. I was mainly driving by the taillights of the transport truck.

When the truck exited, I kept going, trying to make Riviere de Loo. It was so bad, I no longer was relying on what I could see forward, but instead just keeping between the snow banks. Excuse me, I got the hiccups now. Keeping between the snow banks of the divided highway. It was at that point I gave up getting to Riviera de Luz and instead decided to pull off in Woodstock, New Brunswick. At the hotel, there were others like me who couldn't go further.

The next morning, the snow had stopped, but the wind was whipping around. The highway was plowed, but due to the high winds, the highway was covered in snowdrifts. They were deep enough that I had to punch through them with my car. I could go no faster than 60 clicks, but at least I could see it wasn't until I got past Riviere du Loup that I could drive highway speeds. I pushed on. I passed Ottawa at around midnight. After the four lanes ended, I started noticing I was too tired to continue, so I pulled over in Pembroke.

I still remember being asked if I had a block heater by the person at the hotel as it was going to go down below minus 30, so off to the 24-hour Walmart to get an extension cord. I did finally make it to my father's home in North Bay a day late. Man, do we all have stories? I bet we do about trying to make it to the family Christmas, right? Snow. Hey, we live in Canada. Unless you live in Victoria. You run that risk every year.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to have to get to the final couple of letters. First one comes from Jacqueline Boss. My most memorable Christmas occurred in 2004. By then, my parents had been married for 47 years. This would be the only Christmas they would be apart. My mother, now frail and blind and living in a nursing home outside of Toronto, and my father in a Toronto

hospital recovering from surgery, heavily medicated and having a tracheotomy. There had to be a way for them to be able to share this Christmas together, even if it was for a brief time. Though the one-hour drive to Toronto would be a painful one for my mother, when I asked her if she wanted to visit Dad, she insisted that she was up for it. It had to have been a month since they were together. I kept the visit a secret from my father, in case my mother was unable to make it. With my mom in a wheelchair, I slowly entered the ICU, wondering if my father would be surprised to see her,

or would he not be aware that Mom was even there. The medication sometimes left him confused. He lay sleeping as I wheeled Mom up to his bed. When we stopped and parked the wheelchair by my dad's side, Mom asked if she was with Dad now. Upon hearing her voice, Dad opened his eyes and looked toward her with a twinkle in his eye that she could not see. I'd forgotten to inform Mom that she could not see. I'd forgotten to

inform mom that dad could not speak. I did my best to explain the tracheotomy that had taken away his ability to talk. The visit wasn't unfolding as I had hoped. I was feeling a bit of disappointment. How would they communicate? Dad soon extended his hand out toward my mother. He took her hand and placed it in his. The room fell silent. I stood there observing my parents holding hands and the smiles on their faces. After a minute or so, mother explained loudly and excitedly, he loves me. He told me that. He loves me and I told him that I loved him too. No one had spoken. I reminded her why dad could not talk. I was confused and I thought that she was too. They were both beaming with joy at this point.

Something happened, but I didn't know what. Dad had remembered a nonverbal way to let her know that he loved her, by the three gentle squeezes of her hand, and Mom responding with four gentle squeezes. When I was a young child, my parents and I had a special way of expressing love by squeezing hands. When we would be holding hands, one would squeeze three times to say I love you,

the other would respond with four squeezes, meaning I love you too. Jacqueline Boss in Ajax, Ontario. Ay yi yi. Jacqueline Boss in Ajax, Ontario. There's so many good letters here. I feel bad about having to drop some. Here's the last one. This is your book winner for this year. It comes from Cindy Kelly in Mission, British Columbia.

I'm lucky in that my best Christmas memory has become a neighborhood tradition. It's played out for over 25 years on one little street in Mission, B.C. I'd seen an article in about 1995 in Canadian Living Magazine about a neighborhood somewhere in Saskatchewan, Saskatoon perhaps, that created a Santa's runway on their street on Christmas Eve. They put sand in brown paper lunch bags, placed a little tea candle inside, then lined both sides of the street with them, lighting up Santa's travel through town. One year here in Mission, it was actually a foggy Christmas Eve. Imagine my children's delight and concern. We made the little paper bag lanterns and lined our back alley, making a magical airstrip. It was so beautiful in the fog. The kids, and there were about a dozen of them in the neighborhood at that time, practiced landing by forming themselves into teams of reindeer and running up and down the

alley. They all slept well that night. Every year since then, fog, rain, snow, or cold, the neighborhood has built Santa his runway. It grew out of our alley, stretching about five blocks up the road, which is quite enough to be safe. We have never asked for money or donations or anything like that, and we never advertised it. It's just a fun family event that grew naturally out of imagination and resourceful parents. We always provided the bags and candles, and neighbors just showed up around dust to help set them up. Some of the highlights over the years include a control tower built out of large cardboard appliance boxes with a ladder and binoculars inside for kids to climb up and keep watch, a set of brass sleigh bells that would be jingled out of sight and cause all the little ones to jump.

Was he close? Neighbors bringing out a fire pit and chairs and spending time meeting each other. Plates of food and warm drinks soon followed and this continued every year. My oldest sitting in the top floor window monitoring the NORAD Santa report on the computer. When she called out, he's in Alberta, the kids knew it was time to go home and get to bed. Word getting around town and people making it a Christmas Eve tradition to drive by on their way to and from various events to see the runway and say hi. The first chore after opening presents on Christmas Day

is going out and cleaning up the often soggy paper lanterns. My kids were always thrilled to find that generous neighbors had already cleared up most of it. I love that story. Cindy Kelly in Mission, B.C. will be sending you a copy of How Canada Works. I'll sign it. Excuse me.

Got a little bit of a cough today. Just a little bit. Don't worry about it. So that brings us to an end of this special edition of Your Turn. And it was a special edition, and believe me, there were lots more letters, lots of wonderful letters. But I think I've kind of highlighted the special ones. Tomorrow, a special edition of Good Talk with Chantel and Bruce.

It's our year-ender. Got a bunch of questions. They're not the typical ones. They're very different. So we'll give them a whirl and see how a good talk turns out for tomorrow. As we get closer to the big day, and whatever big day it is for you, enjoy this time.

And, you know, if there's a message in all those letters, it's the importance of family. And and hope you get to celebrate with yours all right that's it for for this day i'm peter mansbridge thanks so much for listening talk to you again in 24 hours