It's hard to pick just one memory from Christmas morning as a kid.
They all seem to be a snapshot flourish of flying wrapper, staring agaw at your newest toy — usually a G.I. Joe or some new piece of much-needed hockey equipment — and then sitting down eventually for hearty Christmas breakfast.
Looking back, it was also a lot about the food. My dad loved to cook, and still does. He takes great pride in it. The kitchen is his sanctuary.
So once breakfast was packed away, he'd get fully involved with preparing that night's feast. Maybe my older brother and I would spend a little more time with our new toys, but after just a few hours indoors, I'd get a little squirrelly and need to get the smell of the house off me, as my dad says.
That meant heading down the street to see if there were other neighbourhood friends who'd ventured out.
I grew up in a small city situated in a valley, so there were prime toboggan hills in virtually every nook and cranny of town, including one of the more secluded ones just a short jaunt from our house.
We'd grab the GT So-Racers or whatever sleds — or sled-like contraptions we could find, it didn't really matter — and trudge about a half-kilometre to Springhill.
Or maybe you'd grab a pair of cross-country skis and bomb down the hill on those. Whatever, it was just great to be outdoors, no matter how far the mercury plummeted.
Perhaps an hours-long game of street hockey. Before too long, we'd be stripped down to T-shirts and snow pants, steam rising from our heads.
But whatever it was we did to keep busy, it all came to a head as the sun began to set and the street lights came on. I'd hear my dad's signature whistle (everyone in the neighbourhod knew it), which was a signal come home right away. Dinner would be ready shortly!
I'd come in the door, peel off all the wet clothes and kick off the snowy boots and plunk my young bones down at the table for some turkey, potatoes, stuffing, brussel sprouts (green brains, as my kids call them today) and a mishmash of turnip and carrots that was always there for festive gatherings. I think it was a dish from my dad's native Newfoundland.
I never touched the stuff, though. Still don't.
Same goes for tomato juice at Christmas. There would always be a glass at my spot — still is! — but I just can't stomach it.
Because we lived far away from extended family, Christmas Day was always just about the four of us, so that was special. On Boxing Day, we'd hit the open road to my grandparents' house in Burlington to meet up with aunts, uncles and cousins.
But there were no toboggan hills there, or neighbourhood road hockey games, for that matter, either.
Home is where the heart is.
Today, some of those same traditions prevail. My two boys tear through the wrapping paper to reveal their newest toys and then we head to my parents' house for turkey and all the fixings. But hold the tomato juice and turnip-carrot mishmash, please.
