I’m seven years old.
It’s Christmas morning, 1992. My brothers and I are too giddy for our own good, feeling like…well, kids on Christmas morning. We barrel down the hallway and wake up our sleep-deprived parents before the sun has a chance to kiss an angel good morning (RIP, Charley Pride).
Mom’s the first out of bed and goes to make a pot of coffee. Dad’s taking his sweet time, no doubt trying to wake up some joints in his nearly 60-year-old frame. Jack’s hair might be showing more silver than black these days, but the tough Irishman is still a force of nature when motivated and his grip equals that of a Grizzly bear who finally caught that elusive salmon. Hell, a Grizzly probably wishes.
The parents properly settled into their typical spots in the living room, they give my brothers and I the greenlight to tear into our presents. The ‘main event’ that year is a Nintendo video game system, complete with controllers and two Super Mario games. The three of us are ecstatic; the kind of excitement I can only assume is now produced whenever Apple releases their newest overpriced gadget. Simpler times, that’s for sure.
We waste no time in setting up the Nintendo, and even a coffee and baking-fueled Dad (cookies and butter tarts are fine for lunch on Christmas Day) gets in on the action as we teach him how to shoot the gun in Duck Hunt. Dad’s an okay marksman as far as blasting away pixelated waterfowl, but he can’t be convinced that the dog is not fair game whenever the virtual pooch giggles at Player One’s missed shots. The phone calls start in the kitchen, and soon the Ruttle house will be filled with visiting family for more gifts, games, and Christmas dinner.
Things are different now though - there’s a pandemic gripping the world. There are restrictions.
I’m 17 years old.
It’s Christmas morning, 2002. I’m not particularly enthused about gifts this year as I’m growing older and one starts to realize that there’s so much more to this holiday than just a mountain of consumer goods piled under a colorful tree.
That having been said, one thing I’ve been bothering Dad about lately is a problem I’ve been running into out at the barn just north of town where we keep our horses. It being winter on the good old Saskatchewan prairie, the temperature has dropped considerably and it’s managed to make hauling water a more physical affair. My daily routine after school is filling two 5-gallon jugs with water and taking it out for the horses. The problem I’m running into is that the water, of which the temperature is very warm to hot to begin with in order to combat the temperature, turns to ice if the horses don’t drink it all out of the trough. Sometimes I can punch the ice in order to crush it, provided the layer is thin enough, but soon there’s a four-foot long, six-inch deep block of ice in the trough.
Knowing the horses won’t be cool with just licking this block to gain their H20 sustenance, I either have to break it up by hand, by foot, or one of Dad’s household hammers.
But on this Christmas Day, my prayers have been answered in the form of a long object wrapped in yellow plastic Home Hardware bags. Dad hands it to me with the warning, “For Christ’s sake, don’t grab it by THIS end!”
Fifteen seconds later, I’m staring at an axe. I can’t help but think that our thin-skinned, perpetually-offended society in 2020 would no doubt find something reprehensible with a father gifting his teenage son with something that could easily be used to go on a killing spree. But this gift is all about practicality; the only thing I’m itching to hack and slash at is that damn ice in the trough.
Soon enough, here come the brothers, sisters and nieces to join in our Christmas celebrations.
Things are different now though – there’s a pandemic gripping the world. There are restrictions.
I’m 33 years old.
It’s Christmas morning, 2018. A different locale for the Ruttles this year as we packed up our SUVs three days earlier and headed up North for a few days at Candle Lake, where we’re staying in a gorgeous cabin that we all pitched in to rent. This is something Mom has always had on her bucket list, and I only wish that Dad was here nestled beside her next to the fireplace. Jack would’ve loved it up here.
Powder-fresh snow dots the ground outside and in the trees, where scurrying squirrels send tufts of it billowing into the air. Handfuls of deer make their presence known, sauntering through the property every few minutes and enjoying the carrots we toss in the yard. Not long after Santa’s reindeer make their exit, a lone fox enters the picture and stands out with its rich, orange fur. It scampers up the steps and looks inside the cabin’s huge picture window at us. Soon, a dry rib or three is tossed onto the deck and we finally discover just what the fox says – num-num-num-num-num, apparently.
This Christmas is different, but in the best way possible.
Things are different now though – there’s a pandemic gripping the world. There are restrictions.
But it won’t be like this forever. Yes, Christmas 2020 is indeed the one that the COVID-19 pandemic struck a major blow, and we’ve gone from having some unforgettable holidays to living in unprecedented times, but I happen to think that by being forced to ‘go small’ in our holiday celebrating, some of us might be reminded of just what the season is supposed to be all about.
It’s not about going broke on merchandise or the expenses associated with holiday traveling. It’s about being together, whether it’s under one roof or with the assistance of a steady internet connection. We’ll see each other again.
Until then, appreciate the unique opportunity this Christmas is actually giving us.
For this week, that’s been the Ruttle Report.
