Rural Routes, Blog Version

MY CHRISTMAS CACTUS STORY

Several of my friends, acquaintances and family have posted photographs of their flowering Christmas cacti. I have no such pictures to share.

My Christmas cactus is at least 25 years old; it was purchased at a Mother’s Day church fundraising tea in my home community a long time ago. It used to blossom at home, in fact, it routinely bloomed twice a year, usually about six weeks apart.

It did not bloom the first year here in the city but did send out a few blossoms the second year. Since then, nothing.

I had hopes for it this fall. The branches were sporting new leaves and it looked healthy.

Then one morning Abby the cat came tearing down the stairs and onto the couch. She ran the length of the couch, then launched herself into the drapes on the opposite wall.

She did not make the jump successfully and fell awkwardly on top of my cactus. The pot tipped over and cracked. Four branches were broken, and the floor was covered in potting soil.

K thinks we should rename the cat. Gender aside, he thinks Dennis would be a more appropriate name.

On mornings like that one, I tend to agree. Abby aka Dennis can be a menace.

MY CHRISTMAS TREE STORY

The artificial tree we had on the farm was a big one; I needed a chair or a ladder to reach its top.

That tree was sold in a yard sale before we moved to the city, and I purchased a smaller one. K, who doesn’t share my passion for holiday decorating, would have been willing to do without. But not me.

It’s been four years now and I have grown fond of this smaller tree. It fits well in our reduced space. But I still have issues with the idea of a Christmas tree that is shorter than I am. When you add the angel at the top, we become about the same height. My ideal Christmas tree will always be one that I look up to.

This is Abby’s second Christmas. Until the parcels began to fill the space under the tree, she liked to lie on the tree skirt and swat at the low-hanging ornaments above her.

MY CHRISTMAS CARDS STORY

I send less than half of the cards I used to send every Christmas, and even in my heyday I was sending less than I remember my mother sending. Hers was a different generation.

I always make a point of sending special cards to family members, but only a small portion of them send cards themselves.

Instead of mailing cards, I send e-cards and/or emails to those far away and I do receive e-cards or emails in return. The percentages are much higher.

Unfortunately, some of the deletions on my Christmas card list are made necessary by the demise of their recipients. There are fewer aunts and uncles to send them to.

I write letters to accompany some, but not all, of the cards I send. If I am in regular contact with people, I tend not to send a Christmas letter. And I make a point of writing individual letters to individual people; I have never been a fan of form letters.

I recently read an online article telling readers that Christmas cards were passé and not worth the trouble. If getting them mailed is causing you stress, why bother?

I will continue the Christmas card tradition. They don’t cause me stress and I don’t mind being passé.

MY VINARTERTA STORY

Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without vinarterta. My Western Icelandic heritage demands it.

For the uninitiated, vinarterta is a layered prune torte. Although no longer as popular in Iceland as it once was, the recipe came with Icelanders who emigrated to North America and the torte has remained a favourite Christmas treat.

It had been several years since I had made one. Blame COVID if you want, although it is probably not a valid excuse. COVID did not stop me from baking, although it did stop me baking for guests I could not invite into my home.

This year I did make one. It brought back memories of other times, other places, and other people.

We also purchased a small vinarterta from the Arborg, Manitoba bakery. Consider this an advertisement. They make excellent vinarterta.

And then I won a third cake in a raffle.

This year we have an abundance of vinarterta. A plethora, a riches of vinarterta. We are blessed.

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Many years ago (my onscreen editor wants me to quantify this, but I reserve the right to hide details that would reveal my age), my Grade 2 teacher asked me which I liked best – waiting for Christmas to come or the event itself. I told her I liked the day best. I would have been seven years old at the time.

“Really?” she asked and that was that.

I understand now. I know that anticipation is a large part of the holidays and can be the best part.

But there is a third option. As we age, memories of Christmases past play an ever-larger role in our experience of the season.

In the most perfect of all possibilities, past, present, and future would merge to form a holiday story full of anticipation, happy times and good memories.

That’s what I wish for everyone.

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