Kind moms’ attitudes made Christmas brighter

We always had an artificial Christmas tree when I was a boy, except for once.

In Grade 5, my little sister, Ethel, entered her name in a school draw and won the spruce tree, decorated by students, displayed in the school foyer. A beauty, at least six feet tall. By then we didn’t have a car and Ethel, determined to take it home, dragged it from the foyer, across the street, up a hill, through the slushy hydro field, across another street and into our townhouse.

Propped in the living room, it resembled road kill decorated with blinking lights. We didn’t care. It was a real tree and we loved it.

A few years earlier, my big sister Pennie and I mistakenly assembled the artificial tree upside-down. It looked like a giant toilet bowl cleaner drilling into the living room floor.

As for gifts, we lived in public housing and, after my parents separated, we collected family benefits. There was scant money for frills. My mom did the best she could. We were happy with what we had because we knew we were loved.

The first Christmas after my dad left wasn’t easy. There’s no way to sugar-coat it: We were poor. I’m not complaining. Other families were worse off in more ways than financial. Three years earlier, a brother and sister we knew lost their father, shot to death on Christmas Eve in their home by intruders.

Mom wasn’t up for festivities the year dad left, preoccupied with how she would raise five children on her own. I remember that particular Christmas season for a few reasons. I was six years old. After dad left, prying school teachers asked about my home life. Days leading up to the Christmas break, I came home and asked, “Mom, what do I say when teachers ask me where Dad lives?” Mom replied, “Tell them he lives at another address.”

Poverty robbed me of my voice. My mom taught me how to take it back.

Mom’s family rallied around us that Christmas, attending a Yuletide church service together. Uncles, aunts and cousins filled our stuffy townhouse and crowded around the dining table. We ate warmed-over Swiss Chalet reheated in the small oven, popped Christmas crackers and donned the colourful paper crowns. We laughed, ate Jaffa oranges and devoured Life Savers and After Eights until our stomachs ached. We spread out on the carpet and played

Mousetrap and Battleship and teased Mark, the quiet brother, for gifting us an Almond Joy bar.

Years later, Mom told me she spied Dad outside that evening, sitting forlornly in his car and shivering. He was a good man, unsure of what he wanted. Mom would eventually guide him back into our lives, but he remained out of hers. He watched the house for a while that first Christmas before driving away.

In the coming years, John, 14 when dad left, stepped up. He ensured Ethel always received at least one gift on her Santa list. She squealed with joy once, unwrapping a Cabbage Patch doll from Santa, unbeknownst to her purchased by her eldest brother.

For the next few Christmases, until we were back on our feet, brightly wrapped shoebox-sized parcels containing small, thoughtful gifts — a hat, mittens, some toys and a sweet — from the Toronto Star Santa Claus Fund appeared under the tree. Any kid in the courtyard would tell you those boxes contained the best gifts.

Other families in Flemingdon Park were in the same boat as us. There were always mothers around looking out for us neighbourhood kids. I remember their names: Mrs. Elliott, Mrs. Brazeau and Mrs. McNish, to name a few. My mother, Mrs. Brown, known for her compassion, was among their ranks. At times the neighbourhood could be tough. Mrs. Brown’s children weren’t. To a large extent, our mom’s fierce kindness protected us.

Another attentive mom was Mrs. Greene. My siblings and I often visited her home, chumming with her children, Ron, Ricky, Brian and Sheila. Until I recently discovered a Star article dated Nov. 27, 1967, I never knew Mrs. Greene used the Santa Claus Fund to teach her brood about keeping the less fortunate in mind this time of year. The children responded by donating.

Never once did Mrs. Greene embarrass us or make us feel less than because of financial shortcomings in our home. I haven’t seen Mrs. Greene in decades. I do know that the example she set continues to define the true meaning of Christmas. And this year, when I deliver parcels for the Santa Claus Fund, I’ll be thinking of her. I’ll be thinking of all those mothers from the old neighbourhood, plus my mother, too.

Kindness, compassion and generosity made boyhood tolerable. Like those moms, the Santa Claus Fund went a long way to deliver joy and strengthen the community.