A Grizzly Christmas Story.

481 Views 8 Replies 2 Participants Last post by willrun4chocolate, Dec 11, 2011

Grizzly

Discussion Starter · Dec 11, 2011

So tonight was the quartet's benefit concert for the food bank. It was our 7th, and the lineup of artists had me thinking that it would be the best year yet. It was. 
 
We hold it in an intimate setting and can't cram more than120 people or so in to the hall. The weather cooperated (finally) and we got some advance pub from the radio. It was a sell out.
 
This year I was inspired to write a story in the form of several vignettes. I read between each act with the exception of that of another story teller and for the Mummer's Play.
 
Here it is. Forgive the formatting, it's like that to allow me to read it better.
 
It's called "Noel Chantons Ici"

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #2 · Dec 11, 2011

The winter had come early and had stayed.
There had been no respite from the bitter easterly winds that swept through the river valley and blanketed the railway town with storm after storm. 
Finally, on Christmas Eve the skies had cleared and people were able to dig out from under the oppressive weight of the snow and go about their final preparations for the holiday. 
But a Québec winter offers no relief from the snow without the arrival of the cold. 
The sun shone that day, bright and golden in an incandescent blue sky, but it gave no warmth. 
Almost apologetic for its impotence, the sun skulked low in the sky before slipping all too soon below the horizon. 
As the light drained from the sky, the first brave stars appeared, and then more, thousands more, their light sharpened and hardened by the cold. 
They heralded the arrival of the nearly full moon, which shone frostily in the deep black heart of winter.
Down the street at the train station an engine idled, listlessly puffing billowing clouds of steam into the sky. 
If you listened closely you could almost hear the droplets of mist freeze into ice crystals, as they rose languidly in the still air and spread out over the town to fall on the up-turned face of a little boy contemplating the privilege of being up so late.
Tonight he was old enough to go to La Messe de Minuit, Christmas midnight mass with his older sisters and with his father. 
And afterwards? Well, the Reveillon, of course, food and song and storytelling and… presents! 
Well, SOME presents at least. His mother was English from Ontario and she made sure that Père Noël or "Santa" as she called him, understood that in THIS home he was to come after the children were in bed.

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #3 · Dec 11, 2011

The cold was so sharp that it made his eyes water and if he blinked for a split second too long his lashes would stick together. 
When he breathed in through his nose he ran the risk of having his nostrils freeze. 
A bit too fast and… there, they stuck. 
He rubbed his nose to break the spell of the cold and then yawned broadly. Alarmed, he attempted to stop mid-yawn when he realized that mom might be watching from the doorway. Indeed she was.
“There, you see? He’s too tired. I don’t think he should be out tonight.” 
His mother was staying behind to prepare for the Reveillon and to take care of his younger sister and baby brother.
“Mais non,” his father said, “He’s fine. He’s a big boy now and he’ll be serving mass next year. It’s Christmas after all…”
He held his breath… partly out of fear at being left behind, partly to avoid another yawn.
“Well, just mind that he doesn’t make himself sick…” she cast another doubtful glance at the boy.
“Allons-y!”, “Let’s go!” His father clapped his hands and with that it was decided. They were off for mass.

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #4 · Dec 11, 2011

It was a night of singing snow. The boy twisted his boots this way and that to make the snow squeak and squawk underfoot. 
His sisters skipped on ahead, whispering and giggling, caught up in the excitement of the holiday. 
Perhaps THAT boy would be at church? 
Would mom like the scarf that they had made for her? 
Would their friend Jeannette sit with her family or with her boyfriend?
“Ohé les filles! C’est la messe de minuit! It’s midnight mass, not a dance!” 
“Oui Papa!”, the girls dipped their heads in mock contrition and collapsed into more fits of giggles. 
Papa reached down and took the boy’s hand. “Are you warm enough? There’s too much snow and we can’t cross the cemetery to get to church, so we’ll have to go around. It’s not far, but it is cold.”
He paused for a moment and then lifted the boy up into his arms. 
“You’re a big boy now, but not so big that I can’t carry you for a bit. What do you say?” And off they went, his father humming tunelessly to himself something that might have been a Christmas carol.
As they rounded the corner they passed the convent and were joined by several of the nuns who were bundled against the cold in long black cloaks. 
After a chorus of greetings had been exchanged the nuns scurried on ahead to the church. The boy snorted and stifled a laugh.
“Mais qu’est-ce-qu’il y a? What’s so funny?”
“It’s the sisters, they look like penguins!”
His father laughed at that. “Why yes, yes they do! But p’tit gars, little fella, let’s keep that between us, okay? 
It’s fine to think it, but I wouldn’t want to have Soeur Alphonse hear that we think she’s a penguin!
She’s cold enough as it is!”

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #5 · Dec 11, 2011

From outside the church he could hear the sound of the organ playing, now louder, now softer as the great doors opened and closed. 
It was still early, the church bells hadn’t rung yet, but as the boy looked up and down the street he could see families bustling against the cold, hurrying to reach the warmth of the village church.
Inside the vestibule, Papa loosened the boy’s coat and removed his hat. 
Still cold, the boy shivered. “You’ll be fine in a minute” his father said as he smoothed the boy’s hair and took his hand to lead him into the church. 
The girls had already found their pew and had knelt in prayer, but slid over to give them room. 
The boy knelt too, bowing his head and leaning it against the back of the pew in front of him. 
He said his prayers, dutifully, and then lingered, waiting. 
He had always wondered what the proper thing to do was after ending his prayers. 
If he finished too fast Soeur Alphonse would cluck in disapproval, but if he stayed too long his sisters would mock him for being too pious. 
He counted to 20, watched snow melt from the boots of the person in the pew ahead of him and then raised his head to look around. 
His sisters had risen from their prayers, so he thought he might be safe in joining them, but papa remained kneeling, so the boy stayed to keep him company. 
After what seemed an eternity, his father sighed, crossed himself and sat back. 
With a nod from him, the boy nestled beneath his father’s arm and waited for mass to begin.

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #6 · Dec 11, 2011

The boy was startled awake by the ringing of the church bells announcing midnight mass. 
He looked around at the packed pews and wondered why they needed to ring them at all, it seemed like everyone in town had come to mass. 
As the last echo of the bells faded an expectant hush settled on the congregation, blanketing the sounds of clicking rosary beads, creaking floor boards and people shuffling in their seats. 
His eldest sister turned around to look back at the choir loft. 
“What is it?” He whispered. “It’s Monsieur Grondin, he’s going to sing Minuit Chrétien, O Holy Night!” 
Monsieur Grondin was a local celebrity, in his dashing youth he’d even sung at the Cathedral in Valleyfield across the river! 
As he’d gotten older though, he’d gained a few pounds. Never tall, his width was rapidly approaching his height, and his voice had lost a bit of its honeyed tones. Still, he was a fixture at all of the major celebrations in town.
“I bet you he can’t make the high note” his sister whispered. 
Monsieur Grondin stood at the banister of the choir loft, his hands clutching the rail which rattled a little at his touch.
His face was a tad pale in the church light, perhaps betraying some trepidation of his own. He half turned and nodded at the organist, and then wiped his brow. 
“Minuit Chrétien!”, he rumbled in a rich baritone that seemed to set the church windows rattling. 
The boy watched in fascination as Monsieur Grondin grasped the railing, and leaned forward, his face reddening as the song progressed. 
“Peuple à genoux!”, he sang, “Fall on your knees!” and as he took a deep breath the boy took one too. “Attends ta déliverance!”, “Wait for your deliverance!”
Like some enormous ballet dancer balancing at a beam, Monsieur Grondin bent down and then rose as if to take in a church full of air. Eyes bulging out of his head he roared out the words “Noël, Noël, voici le Rédempteur!” and then beamed in triumph. He’d made it! 
The boy sighed in relief. 
“He’s not through yet, he’s got two more verses to go!” his sister whispered. 
But Monsieur Grondin soldiered on, and apart from some creakiness here and there and some damage to the railing they all made it through unscathed.

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #7 · Dec 11, 2011

The service was underway, the congregation had risen and done its best at massacring Adeste Fideles, Oh Come All Ye Faithful. 
The train of altar boys and priests had left their station and processed in clouds of incense to the sanctuary when from the back of the church rose a bit of a commotion. 
The boy craned his neck to see a young, slightly dishevelled serviceman in air force blues speaking heatedly with one of the ushers in audible whispers.
“But I AM Catholic.” The man said in English and repeated in heavily accented French, “Je suis Catholic”.
The usher shook his head, “Impossible! You are English. Not Catholic.” “I’m IRISH!” the man protested.
Then suddenly his father was there at the back and with a quick exchange of words with the usher he returned to the pew with the young man in tow. 
With a gesture he asked the girls to scrunch over and stood the boy on the kneeler in front of him to make space. 
The priest, oblivious or choosing to ignore the commotion, continued with the Confiteor, the confession of sins at the beginning of the mass.
“Thanks, merci” the man breathed. Papa nodded slowly in reply, “You ARE Catholic?”, he asked.
The young man grinned and then chimed in with the congregation at that point as they beat their breasts in contrition, 
“Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea maxima culpa”. “I guess so then”, father said, “Only Catholics can be so happy feeling guilty.”

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Grizzly

Discussion Starter · #8 · Dec 11, 2011

Mass had finished, the last prayer had been intoned, the last hymn sung, the last bit of incense wafted, and the congregation was disgorging from the church onto the street and dispersing into the cold night.
The tardy airman’s name was Jim Flanagan. He had missed his connection to a train home and was waiting for the milk run to Ontario. 
The bench at the station wasn’t comfortable and when he had heard the bells ring for midnight mass he felt a twinge of Catholic guilt, felt more than a twinge of loneliness, and concluded that mass was surely better than freezing in the waiting room of the village depot. 
“Jim, come have something to eat with us.” Papa offered as the man hefted his duffel, “We are up the street from the station.”
They arrived home in a tumble, mom held the door open to the commotion of arms, legs, boots and coats that flew by her, and peered quizzically at her husband and his guest. 
“Welcome”, she said after a quick introduction, “there’s always room for one more in this house!”
And there was. Even with children ravenous after fasting before midnight mass, there was enough and more to go around. 
Tourtière, of course, and mom’s famous devilled eggs, a favourite of the boy’s. She’d even made boats out of them by sticking a toothpick and paper sail into the eggs. 
And there was music. The girls took turns playing the piano and they all sang carols. Jim had his turn too and sang a few in English. 
One made mom cry, and that perplexed the boy because she said that it was her favourite.
He didn’t think that Jim had sung it all that badly. The boy shook his head; he’d never understand adults.
And then it was time for presents from their grandparents, mittens and scarves and socks. 
There were groans when mom reminded them all that Santa would not come until morning. The boy’s groan turned into a loud yawn, and his mother was on him like a hawk.
 
“And you sir…” she turned to the boy, YOU are off to bed NOW!” 
He didn’t protest too much, and soon was tucked into his bed with prayers, kisses and Christmas wishes. 
His mother closed the door on her way out, but the boy opened it again so that he could listen to the rest of the party.
He could hear his father and Jim talk about the war as they washed dishes, his sisters singing quietly in the front room, and mom softly crooning her favourite carol as she paced the floor of the hallway, soothing his baby brother to sleep. 
The boy turned his head to look out of the window at the moon.
Down the street at the train station an engine idled, listlessly puffing billowing clouds of steam into the sky. 
If you listened closely you could almost hear the droplets of mist freeze into ice crystals, as they rose languidly in the still air and spread out over the town.
The boy sighed and snuggled further under the covers. 
It was Christmas. It was Christmas.

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