Tag Archives: Christmas

Sprucing up Christmas

May dad writes a column for the Cochrane Eagle. He asked me to do a guest column for Christmas, and I was happy to. Here it is (you can also see it on coffeewithwarren.com).

christmas_tree_500

When I was a teenager, we lived in a big house at the foot of Mount Yamnuska. Every December, we would go out into our big back lot and find a suitable spruce tree. We would cut it and drag it across the snow and into the house, and it would spruce up our living room as we spruced it up with ornaments, garlands and those little tinsel strips the cats always ate. Continue reading

The many names of Christmas: the podcast

A couple of years ago, I did an article for The Week on the names different languages have for Christmas, and how many of them have no “Christ” in them. This year we’ve made a podcast of it, so you can hear me actually say all these different names. It’s not that long…

Almost every language has a word for ‘Christmas.’ Few reference Christ.

Keep the Ziemas in Ziemassvētki

My latest piece for The Week is on Christmas – and Noël, and Navidad, and Weihnachten, and Jul, and Ziemassvētki… Christmas has different names in different languages, and most of them don’t mention Christ. In fact, many of them are retained names of pagan festivals. Does that seem inappropriate? Do you mind Christmas trees, or mistletoe, or – for that matter – the name Easter?

Almost every language has a word for ‘Christmas.’ Few reference Christ.

 

cabin

It’s Christmas. It’s winter. It’s dark now as I write this, and the streets and roads are sparkling with starlight or decorations, with snow or rain. I feel sentimental, and am sent to my mental cabinet to retrieve some memories.

Here: a little cabin, glowing in the cold windy dark. A small space of light encased by night, a warmth to cross a frozen yard towards. Cold and dark, night, and beckoning light from a small wooden refuge, warm enough for the time: this, to me, is a Christmas picture, and one I have walked through more than once.

When I was an infant we lived for some duration in a cabin, though I don’t remember it. But we moved several times in my childhood and youth, and on two occasions we were in mid-move at Christmas and spent it in guest cabins, once at a motel in Canmore, once at the Rafter Six Ranch.

I can recall passing a jolly Christmas Eve in the main lodge at the ranch, with light and warmth and people and songs and food and beverage, and then stepping out into the cold dark, just by myself; my parents had already headed over to the cabin. The contrast was stark: light, warmth, sound; then the door shut, and none of the three remained, just me alone at night outdoors in winter at the edge of the Rockies. It was no Thomas Kinkade painting. The snow was windswept, crusted and gravelly, bare patches of dead grass peeking through. The sound was just my feet and the rustling of my jacket, and perhaps the buffeting of the wind. It was a familiar enough scene; I’d grown up around there. But this time I was heading not to a large warm home fully inhabited with stuff, so many rooms owned and furnished and worn easily like personal clothing. This time I was heading to a small cabin, not quite as warm, with just our suitcases’ capacity of effects, the rest packed up somewhere else to be delivered to a new place hundreds of kilometres to the north. We were moving away from where I had grown up, and this cabin was the last warm light at the edge of the woods.

I was already at university at the time, I should say. I was just home for Christmas. But this time there was no home to come to. Well, so be it. Many people spend Christmas at beach resorts, padding to cabanas in the sun to change into swimwear and refresh their beverages. They will end up back home, and all will return to its wonted ways. For me this time, home had stopped being one place and had not yet started being another. We were at a limen, in a temporary shelter, a glowing light across the cold empty snowy and stony night.

This was not a Wenceslas moment; the distance from lodge to cabin was much less than a league. I crossed the barren easily in a couple minutes’ walk and went in. It was not spacious; it was not as well heated as a home; the shower produced a stream less warm and strong than a horse’s relief. But it was there, a light across the frigid silent empty night, with the woods behind.

To me, that is the pattern of a cabin: a cozy remote space of transience, a refuge of light in the great surrounding dark.

I have spent other Christmas Eves in other cabins: the motel cabin in Canmore, similar but less isolated, and the passenger cabin of an airplane – a metal container of light flying through the windy night. I have been in other cabins not at Christmas – our cabin on a cruise ship, for instance: another transient box of light, from which you can look out at the vast darkness of the sea. And I have taken many a cab in the night. We also have our cultural images: little cabin in the woods, Lincoln’s log cabin, perhaps Uncle Tom’s cabin (no snow there, though); in Quebec, the cabane à sucre, a sugar shack in the maple forest.

Some people have lived permanently in cabins. My family lived in one, as I have said, when I was an infant. But originally a cabin was a temporary structure made of light materials, perhaps even a tent – something more resembling a beach cabana. Of course cabana comes from the same source, late Latin capanna. In English the term shifted over to refer to a more permanent structure made of rough materials. They are typically small, and it is from that that we get the ship and airplane sense (on the other hand, taxi cab is from taximeter cabriolet, not related). But the log cabin type can expand: the international airport terminal for Mont-Tremblant is a log cabin, but a very comfortable two-storey one. You do still have to walk across an open space outdoors to get to it, though – there are no jetways.

And a cabinet? A small cabin, originally. Our storage-space sense draws on Italian gabinetto, which comes also from capanna but more altered. Your cabinet is not a light in the dark but a dark space from which you draw things to bring them to light and use. Your memory is a cabinet, and you keep – among other things – the images of your past cabins in it. What better time to bring them out than Christmas?