In loving memory of Rosemary Buck (Dec. 16, 1963-April 30, 2023) “Should auld acquaintance be forgot ….”

Lucy MacNeil paused, her voice catching in the middle of singing the opening line of this seasonal favourite.

“It’s the first time I’ve sung this since Mom passed away….” she quietly murmured from her spotlight on the stage.

The Barra MacNeils’ performance of An East Coast Christmas on Nov. 15 in Whitehorse marked the family band’s first stop on their cross-Canada tour.

There was a collective pause, then Lucy tenderly asked, “Would you please sing it to me, so I 
can receive?”

Although she was speaking into a microphone, her voice was barely audible, but somehow we heard her.

We must have heard her because we all started singing, hearts in hand, giving her exactly what she had asked of us, holding her and her four brothers up in love.

Tears welled up in Lucy’s eyes — and in the eyes of many inside the Yukon Arts Centre that night — and then Lucy joined in.

Who among us hasn’t been touched by a “first Christmas” or “first birthday” or another occasion without a beloved family member or friend — or with a new family member or a new friend?

This year marks the first Christmas for me without Rosemary, a dear friend who was also my son’s godmother.

It also marks the third Christmas without my mom and the 11th Christmas without my dad, but who’s counting?

I guess I am. I’m counting those Christmases and other celebrations that have continued on without the ones I love.

Celebrations like Christmas have a way of magnifying the absences of those we love, whether due to death or a change in circumstances, yet they can also highlight positive changes in our lives.

Children grow up and leave home and build their own traditions.

Longtime family traditions are often abandoned or adapted when travel plans interfere or through the unique and sometimes stressful situations that are created by separation or divorce.

Traditions are often revived when we welcome new in-laws or with the addition of grandchildren or new friends.

Honouring and bearing witness to all of these first Christmases feels significant to me, indicating the passage of time — and the circle of life.

In 1958, my parents celebrated their first Christmas as a newly married couple in Aklavik, N.W.T.

Mom’s youthful form would have begun showing her first of six pregnancies.

My parents had both relocated to the North from Ontario in the early/mid-1950s and had already been far from home for a few Christmases.

No family members had been able to attend their wedding in such an isolated community.

They began intentionally creating community wherever they were, finding their chosen family with which to gather, carrying some family traditions with them and also creating new ones.

The first Christmas I remember was when I was about four years old growing up in Dawson City.

Being child number four of six, my five siblings and I had each picked out our ONE allowed $10 Christmas gift from the Sears catalogue — and a month or so later, these gifts magically appeared under our tree!

How we loved the Sears catalogue, especially the thrill of poring through the annual Christmas Wish Book, pawed and dog-eared by us all. I hope Mom and Dad picked an item or two for themselves too.

That Christmas, like most years, our grandparents sent gifts from Ontario: new pyjamas all around from our city Grandma Snider and home-knitted clothing for my sister and my Barbie dolls from our country Grandma Gadsby.

A highlight of that Christmas was the Huron Carol-themed Christmas Eve pageant in St. Paul’s Anglican Church, where my father was the minister.

As was typical, the evening pageant was a joy-filled event with community members filing in and filling the church, standing room only.

The wood stove was lit days in advance to warm the frozen building – a building that was further warmed by the hearts of every occupant.

I was one of a cast of a dozen or so characters from Mom’s Sunday School class who sang and re-enacted the Huron Carol at the front of the church. I think I was a hunter, but I honestly don’t remember that detail.

What I do remember was the singing! I can still hear the sound of a hundred or so voices raising the words of the Huron Carol up into the dark night sky, “’Twas in the moon of wintertime when all the birds had fled ….” with voices in the congregation spontaneously joining in.

Another first was when our family of eight travelled from our little northern Yukon town to the BIG city of Toronto, Ontario, to visit family for Christmas.

What an epic undertaking that was! Not only were we a large travelling group, braving winter on the isolated North Klondike Highway, but also because Dad’s professional purpose — celebrating the birth of Christ — was the priority.

Even though we children were on Christmas holidays, we could NOT leave Dawson until after the Christmas Day service was wrapped up and tied in a bow.

Immediately after the service, Dad quickly changed out of his church robes, we all bundled into winter clothes, and piled into our vehicle for the eight-hour trip down to Whitehorse.

Not much was open on the North Klondike Highway on Christmas Day, but we managed to find gas and food along the way, provided by the gracious folks who ran the highway lodges that dotted our route: Stewart, Carmacks and Braeburn.

Finally, in Whitehorse, we loaded onto our flight, a remarkable event back in the 1970s.

This flight took us to Vancouver, then another to Toronto. We arrived exhausted, but warmly greeted by our excited and relieved grandparents.

Christmas in Toronto! It was unlike any Christmas I could have imagined.

People everywhere! Whenever we were away from the security of our grandparents’ home, I was wide-eyed, taking in the crowds, the magical storefront Christmas displays, the subway and the colourful stoplights!

At that time, Dawson was a community of about 800 people, and had no stoplights, which is still the case today. Whereas Toronto had a population of about 2.7 million people and countless stoplights.

One of my special memories is of watching my youngest brother toddling around, discovering the magic of automatic doors, escalators and elevators, innovations we didn’t have in Dawson. At home, we opened doors and used the stairs.

After a week of visiting Dad’s family in the big city, we travelled to the Ontario countryside to visit Mom’s side of the family.

We were warmly welcomed by our farm-based relatives in somewhat more familiar surroundings.

However, our activities couldn’t have been more different from Toronto. We spent our days footloose and fancy-free, hanging out with our cousins in barns filled with haylofts (complete with feral cats) cattle, horses, chickens and ducks.

And every morning, when we awoke to the sound of the rooster crowing — or maybe a few hours later — we got to help out with the farm chores, my favourite being gathering eggs for breakfast.

Years later, as a young adult, I experienced another first Christmas, a belated honeymoon adventure travelling to a tropical island off the coast of Belize.

As a young teacher, I anticipated the ringing of the end-of-school bell when I could race home to my new husband.

It took a few days of travelling before we arrived on an isolated atoll, a four-hour boat ride into the dark night off the coast.

This was not only my first Christmas away from my family (and my parka) but it was also my first trip out of North America, a big deal.

As dawn broke on our first tropical morning, I savoured the beauty, yet I also wondered what I was doing so far away from home for Christmas.

Despite some homesickness, it didn’t take me long to get into the spirit of things.

After seven days of fabulous scuba diving, on Christmas Eve we travelled back to the city of San Pedro.

We were sunburnt and weary, but unable to sleep due to the energetic and non-stop Christmas Eve chorus of “Feliz Navidad” that filled the streets.

We threw open the shutters, joining the celebrations that were happening down below.

Another significant first was when I became a parent. Now that was magical!

My son was almost one year old for his first Christmas. I recall helping him navigate the stairs and watching the colourful lights from our Christmas tree dancing in his bright and wondrous eyes.

His favourite gift that year was a shiny metal battery-operated train engine that lit up and choo-choo’d around our living room, with him crawling behind it like he was the caboose.

The look on his face when he decorated his first gingerbread house was absolutely precious! Christmas became shinier and more colourful watching it through my child’s eyes.

Then there was my son’s first school Christmas concert, another delightful first!

He made his dramatic debut dressed as a Kindergarten reindeer. And, of course, he was the most adorable reindeer on the stage.

It was a proud Mom moment for me, watching my engaged and enthusiastic reindeer, singing loudly and confidently and following the choreographed moves — perhaps even busting out a few extras.

Once in high school, my son’s elementary school Christmas concerts were replaced by All-City Band Christmas concerts at the Yukon Arts Centre.

In his first, of what would become five Christmas-themed band concerts, my son was a novice tuba player with the Junior Band. In Grade 12, I watched him as a confident tuba player in his last Christmas concert, a beautiful and sentimental moment.

The first Christmas we spent during the COVID pandemic, turned out to be Mom’s last.

At age 90, she had advanced dementia and had been living in continuing care for a few years.

Once the COVID-19 pandemic hit, our family was tasked with abiding by the myriad and ever-changing restrictions set in place to keep our most vulnerable citizens healthy.

On Dec. 25, 2020, my family brought Mom to our home for Christmas dinner. However, no other family members were allowed to be in our home; it was to be only Mom and members of our immediate household.

The social bubble became very small where our vulnerable Mom was concerned.

That year, Mom had a hard time navigating the stairs in our home, the process involving three extra bodies to assist her. Even though her body was strong, her brain had forgotten how to go up and down the stairs.

I also recall that we didn’t have to put any leaves in the dining room table that year, with our dinner being only my husband, my son, my mom and I, which might have been a Christmas Day dinner record in our home.

Regardless, we enjoyed a turkey dinner with all of the fixings.

Dinner was immediately followed by a Christmas Zoom call with family members here in Whitehorse, in Saskatchewan and in Ontario.

This Christmas, we’ve made quiet, cozy plans — pretty much no plans at all, going with the flow of whatever we feel like doing.

We are dog-sitting for a friend who is travelling down south, and we’re all excited to be sharing our Christmas with a new-to-us pooch. That’s a first!

And, as per usual, while we’re putzing about or putting a turkey dinner on the table or working on a Christmas puzzle or out walking or skiing on the snowy trails, we’ll be reminiscing about — and remembering — the loved ones we are missing.

During this Christmas season, if you’re able to give, please give. If you need to receive, I invite you to remember Lucy MacNeil’s words:

“Would you please sing to me, so I can receive?”

And I will sing along with you.

The writer is a Whitehorse resident.

By Grace Snider
Special to the Star