Emma Field Book I - coming of age in the changing times of the mid-19th century

Chapter XXIII - Christmas

Jeremiah allowed his daughter to light a fresh candle before she settled into bed on Christmas Eve.

"You should have named me Mary, Father. Isn't it 
 supposed to be "the Mary" in the family who snuffs out the candle each Christmas morning?"

"That it is. But the snuffing out isn't what's important; it's the lighting."

"To welcome Mary and Joseph?"

"So they say. But I rather doubt they'll turn up. Your Uncle Seamus, on the other hand...he may be here this spring."

"Oh?"

"Goodnight, Emma," he said, abruptly turning toward his bed.

"But...Goodnight, Father."

•

Emma awoke on Christmas morning just as her father stepped out into the darkness to take care of the chores. The candle had burned out. Only a distorted mound of cold wax remained in the holder. Sleepily she unwound her nightdress from around her legs and stumbled toward the table, where a goose hung on the spit in the shiny reflector oven. She hoisted it and placed it over the edge of the fire. On the crane she hung a pot of water for boiling the plum pudding.

By the time her father returned from the barn the smell of roasting meat was just starting to seep into the room. "It is such a shame that something so good as a Christmas goose is an English tradition!" He laughed as he hung his coat on the peg inside the door.

Just as the sun began to shine in the west window, Emma and her father sat down to a table practically covered with the roasted goose, the black pot of freshly cooked potatoes, carrots, and parsnips, and the equally black, heavy plum pudding. They ate in silence.

"That was a fine meal, Emma," he said when they were finished. "As fine as you'd get anywhere in the district. We don't do too badly, do we?"

"I would have thought that the Coopers would have invited us for Christmas dinner."

"They did, but I told them we were quite content on our own."

"Why did you do that?"

"We're quite content, aren't we?"

"I suppose; but sometimes it would be nice to be in a house where there was a mother and grandmother."

"You don't need a mother and grandmother. You put on a fine spread yourself."

Emma looked at the fire. "You don't understand," she said in a small voice.

"No, probably not," Jeremiah replied, patting his belly with his big hands. "Oh, it feels good to be so full and to know that I don't have to go outside for a little while yet. Look how cloudy it's become. And the snow is dripping off the roof too." He thrust his plate to the centre of the table and stood up. "I can hardly keep these eyes open," he said, rubbing them and moving toward his bed. "I'm just going to rest them for a few minutes before chores."

Emma sighed deeply, pushed herself from the table, and set about cleaning up the remains of their Christmas dinner. She drained the grease into the crock and before she had scraped the pan clean, her father's breathing had turned to a soft, rhythmic whistle. Emma wiped her hands on her apron and sat down heavily on her folded settle. She curled her arms around her knees and watched the water droplets play along the edge of the roof.

"They're like the keys on an accordion," she thought. "Someone's fingers are silently playing the shingles on the roof. Dip, drop, dippity, do..." Emma smiled as she thought about the Christmas Frolic. She could still hear Samuel Barker's monotone recitation of "Maud." She smiled as she thought how painful Peter Minaker's singing was; even now she could just see John Williams's smile. Watching the water droplets, the need to cry welled up in her. She didn't know why; she just felt very, very sad.