I hope you have enjoyed the stories that have been shared here over the past two weeks -- special thanks to the writers!! I think that I'll do this again next year, so please consider sharing a special  memory by emailing  YourMemoriesOfChristmas@gmail.com And with that, here's one final post for this year ... 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave ...

As you may imagine, an old guy like me has a few memories of Christmas past. In the early 1950's, my dad was a BC Forest Service ranger. I was born in Terrace, but that is because my dad had bought an old homestead from one of the Marion brothers downstream from historic Telegraph Creek. Terrace was really the biggest and closest center to Telegraph Creek, although Watson Lake in the Yukon Territory was easier to access at the time. He planned to get his guiding territory going, but that takes a grubstake and a lot of work. We lived on a lookout tower near Bella Coola, but it was too far away from the ranch, so my dad took a job working in a mining camp in the Yukon. The photo shows the camp, and that big white Jones Tent was where my dad was the cook for the drilling crew! Our wall tent was set up closer to Cowley Creek. When the core sample crew was at work we would spend as much time inside the big white wall tent! That seemed so luxurious compared to our tent. Our tent had a bu...

“ Lost a Santa, gained a sister ” -- Linda six Christmas's later “ Is Santa real ?” To a ten-year-old that’s a very important question.     I talked it over with Roger, my six-year-old brother.   We’d heard whispers from older kids at school.   There was no Santa, they said.   “ It’s all made up. Your parents do everything. They buy the presents, stuff the stockings. They hide presents away so you won’t see them, then stay up late Christmas Eve to put them under the tree. ”     We weren’t sure what to think.   We couldn’t imagine many hiding places we didn’t know about in our log cabin.   Who ate the tea and cookies we left for Santa?   “ That’s easy ” scoffed the big kids. “ Your Dad !”     And the carrots for the reindeer?   Where did they go?   “ Back into the cellar, of course !”   We couldn’t accept that.   We didn’t involve our four-year-old brother Buddy in these discussio...

This story is one that was taped by Darlene Brown-John Heal in 1997. Said Darlene, “ It was told to me by Alice (Reid) Racher. Alice figured she was about nine years old at the time. I loved this Christmas story and was so pleased when I found this photograph at the Horsefly Museum to go with our story !”   In the (Cariboo) village of Horsefly, the Hockley girls were busy getting ready for a trip up the Black Creek Valley to spend Christmas with their parents, Dick and Alice Hockley.  At that time of the year, no cars traveled the Black Creek Road, and the only transport was by sleigh.   Everyone wanted to go to the ranch for Christmas! Lloyd and Dorothy Walters were living at the Walters Ranch, and Lloyd had two big teams of horses, and he lent the family one team and his hired hand to drive. The horses were hitched to the big hay rack where a wall tent had been set up on the deck with crates to sit on and some hay for the children to lay on. Plus, a wood stove, chimn...

  He was probably the best loved Christmas present we children ever had.     One year, when all the presents had been opened, our parents announced that there was one more and brought in a cardboard box. Inside it a small, brown, floppy-eared puppy looked up at us eagerly.   Our first dog! We couldn't believe it.   We had him out of that box immediately.   After much patting and playing the puppy, tired from all the enthusiasm, fell asleep with his head on my brother's knee.     Roger turned to me and whispered, " I'm not going to move until he wakes up !"   He didn't.   He sat very still, solemn, and happy.   How old were we that Christmas?   Four, six and eight seems about right.   Young enough not to question where the puppy had been hidden.   (It's not easy, believe me, to hide a dog, however small, in a three-room log cabin.)   Was he out in the chicken house? Down in the barn?   And...

I thought I knew my friend. A number of years ago she invited my son and I to Christmas dinner.   When we began planning the menu, I realized that Christmas dinner means quite different foods to different people. Dessert, for example.   “ Why an ice cream log ?”, I asked. “ Ice cream’s for hot summer days !”   Not to her. To her an ice cream log spelled Christmas. She could not comprehend why anyone would cook, let alone consume, Brussels sprouts and cheese sauce. We simplified. We agreed to cook everything either of us considered traditional Christmas fare. The result was a many course dinner with days of delicious leftovers.   The truth is, Christmas dinner isn’t just a meal, it’s a way of connecting with family and friends, and evoking memories of the past.  That’s why serving traditional food, whatever your tradition, is so important.   In our family, even after we grew up, moved away, and married, we all still came home for Christmas. ...

  The small cabin settles into the bitter cold As her logs protect, they split with riffle noise. The large box behind the stove is piled high  With kindling and wood split by the swinging axe. While washboard scrubbed clothes are hung to dry High above the stove on the pulley rack After stiffing to frozen brittle garment cutouts In the subzero outside air. Both barn and coop protect their inhabitants Chickens fluff their feathers to keep warm  The egg count is down but they still need care. Horses heads pull hay to munch From mangers filled by mittened hands and feet that crunch While cows moo softly in the barn filled with reassuring smells In spite of the winter chill all within are safe and well. Across the bitter sky a coyote’s haunting howl is a mourn  For warmer days and growing hay When spring returns and calves are born And the children go out to play. Now the cabin’s family snuggles in the heated space Appreciating th...