My son was smallish for his age. At his eighth Christmas he could have passed for five years of age, or less. He was the only boy of four siblings and the youngest at that. If you were to ask him he’d say he was terrorized by his sisters, they’d retort that he was spoiled rotten. Being his mom I can attest to the fact that there’s likely some truth to both perspectives! Even now, in his mid-fifties he’s still referred to as the baby, much to his chagrin.

He wasn’t the most physically gifted as a youngster so he could often be found nose deep in a book or magazine. I vividly recall seeing him sitting on the floor in a sea of his fathers newspaper pages. He would demand to be told what the words were that he couldn’t understand by anyone unfortunate enough to walk by.

Christmas was tough around our home, we didn’t have much. The old farmhouse didn’t even have running water, (unusual even in the early 1970’s in rural Ontario). The children and I, were a tight knit group, often at odds with the patriarch of the home. My husband, their father was volatile at best, he suffered PTSD symptoms long before it was ever a recognized or treated condition. He’d seen the ravages of warfare firsthand and was badly wounded as a private in the Korean war.

Anyway, to keep this lighthearted I’ll get back to my Christmas story. The kids received two gifts at Christmas: one from Santa and one from the parents. They also had stockings which were always filled with inexpensive candies and such. I saved tip money all year from hairdressing six days a week to enable them to have anything at all.

My son’s most prized present this particular Christmas was a Meccano set with a working motor, you know the building toy with nuts, bolts and metal pieces. Once it was opened we barely heard from him. That was till dinner when all heck broke loose and the cooked turkey moved!

I should’ve known something was up, I’d barely heard a peep out of my son and his fourteen month older sister, they usually were under my feet looking for pre-dinner treats, especially on Christmas Day. Those two were near inseparable and I hadn’t seen them in hours.

As was our tradition the turkey sat on a platter, husband with electric carving knife in hand ready to do the honours. Over the noise of the knife we didn’t hear the other sound! Suddenly the entire turkey rose. Startled he dropped the knife, knocking over canned cranberries and the gravy boat. The turkey platter tilted at such an angle that the entire bird fell on it’s side and rolled to the edge of the table. He lunged for it and managed to grasp a leg. However, its weight ensured that it snapped off in his hand. He looked dumbfounded as the rest of the turkey crashed to the floor. Our three small dogs all pounced, as if on cue. It was a wonderful Christmas surprise for the lovable mutts. My eldest daughter, timid at best, screamed in hysterics at the movement of the turkey and looked near ready to pass out. The younger children were laughing about as loud as I’ve ever heard, till they drew the ire of their father. My other daughter, always the one to take charge, shooed off the dogs and returned the carcass to the platter as quick as she could. Not eating the turkey wasn’t an option, there was no back up plan and we couldn’t afford to throw it out. We cleaned it off as best we could and tried to regain a semblance of normalcy to our dinner.

As quiet as my son is, he has a mischievous streak. He’d designed an operating lever with his toy and had planted it under the tray with the help of his sister when no one was around. The wires to it were carefully hidden under the tablecloth. Having triggered the device it had lifted the platter, setting in motion the ensuing chaos.

The boy didn’t sit well for a few days following the fiasco, corporal punishment was still prevalent back then! His father was not a spare the rod spoil the child type. However, memories of the moving bird was something we laughed about at many subsequent family dinners.

No decent parent will profess to having a favourite child, but I was delighted when I had another son. My first was lost tragically at four years of age, having been struck by a vehicle. I hope my surviving son knows that I’m very proud of the fine husband, father and man he’s become. His would be older brother, oldest sister (gone at fifty-two) and I look at him at him with smiles on our faces. We look forward to welcoming him back to the fold, but of course for his sake hope that is many years away.