Our Baby's First Christmas

January 1970 saw me reluctantly drop out of high school, just turned 18. Pregnant, I'd traded shame in my hometown for anonymity in Ottawa. Not one to give up easily, my sweetheart pursued me. To our elders, our differences (he French Catholic, me English Protestant) and our youth were marks against us. But our naivité, love and his insistence we marry, soon saw us newlyweds. Our beautiful little girl arrived safely soon after.

Anxious to support us, this new husband and father found a job to assure his little family's survival: washing floors at night for the aptly yet whimsically named Star-Lite Building Cleaners. His co-workers were draft dodgers and transients. The work and $1.65/hour wage meant high employee turnover. Having lasted the longest, he was soon named foreman.

Alone nights with our baby, I couldn't sleep hearing every creak as the aged foundations of our Crichton Street house shifted and settled. Spookily, the wind found every nook and cranny to make moan and whistle. Yet one snowy night I thought I heard..it couldn't be! Faintly at first, then ever louder, the rhythmic "chinga, chinga, chinga" of bells!

Like the man in the poem, "away to the window I flew like a flash." I had not a shutter but I "threw up the sash." There, gliding down the street was a sleigh, empty but for the driver. Bundled up against the cold and the snow, he sat tall on his bench, his mittened hands slapped reins on horses - HORSES! - harnessed with bells. Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! They pranced by below my window, their frosty noses streaming steam in the frozen air. It was magic. So unexpected, so out of place, such a wonder! Their hooves puffed fluffs of snow as I watched the sleigh swing gently 'round the corner. Fainter now...chinga, chinga...heads high, they danced proudly across St. Patrick Street Bridge and out of sight. Through a veil of snowflakes, the corner light illuminated my silent street, empty but for the trace of runners.

With my nightie billowing and my full weight on the sash, I slammed shut the window. Chin cupped in hand, I squeezed my eyes shut and knowing there were stars out there somewhere whispered a childhood chant: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

My husband, the youngest in a family of 14, and I the fifth of seven didn't talk of how much we missed our families. Nor did we mention the season's festivities we'd be missing. Travel to our hometown by bus or train on his salary was out of the question. When the radio played songs like "I'll be home for Christmas", we changed stations. Wearing happy faces and determined to make the best of our first Christmas as a family, we found joy in our baby's fascination with the sights, sounds and smells of the season.

Just before Christmas one bright wintery morning, my love awakened me with an enthusiastic bearhug, a tender sweet kiss and the best Christmas present ever. "We're going HOME for Christmas!" Star-Lite's manager, Mr. Baldwin, had generously offered us the company station wagon to get home.

Wherever you are today, Mr. Baldwin, God bless you. Wishes do come true and Christmas angels aren't only little decorations perched on top of fir trees; they're everyday people like you and me.