Candy Coated Christmas
Editorial Article Written by Lesley Lorenz
Nanaimo Magazine, December 2006
Now that our days are about 6 minutes long, and it rains so much that animals are starting to line up two by two, it is time to think inside thoughts. Crackling fire, books splayed open on the coffee table, slow cooked meals and board games are in order.
My father built our house, along with the support and guidance of my mother. I particularly remember the huge stone fireplace that was central to both the dining room and the living room. The granite rock faces were mapped with mortar that was exactly the right size for hot wheels to use as tracks, and we built Lego cities for the cars on the mantle. Our stockings hung on the stonework, alongside garishly decorated gingerbread men that we had designed as portraits of family members and friends. Many of the candy decorations had been previously sucked and at least one eye seemed always to go missing.
We would also build an extravagant candy house each year. It had a cardboard base, as my mom’s firm belief was that no one ever ate the gingerbread part anyways, for pete’s sake. Shreddies formed the roof tiles, and all the least desirable candy left over from Halloween patterned the rest of the castle, mostly fizzers and lifesavers. After Christmas we would scramble to pull the hardened candy away from the crumbling icing, and the dog, an extra longhaired Samoyed/Husky cross, would get the leftovers. Smarties clung to his fur for weeks afterwards.
My Dad has an elf. It lives in the forest behind our house, and it only comes out and dances at Christmas. It is very shy, so the lights must all be turned down low and no one can get closer than a skipping rope length away. It dances and tells secrets about the forest animals in my fathers ear, which he relates to us in whispers. The elf still shows up at Christmas, and I still believe his secrets.
I wish you all the joys of the season. Peace to you and yours.
© Lesley Lorenz