As the calendar flips to December, I brace myself for the cry of "Can we do Secret Santa?" from my students. I cringe.
Suddenly, I am back in Winnipeg. It is Dec. 22, 1967, at Harrow School and I am nine years old.
The room is filled with tacky reindeer and snowflakes dangling from the ceiling, with toilet-paper rolls loosely resembling Yule logs.
There's a tree at the front, lights twinkling, an ornament we've each brought from home hanging on it and packages piled below – one for each of us in the class with tags that say "From: Guess Who?" and lots more for Mrs. Yaskiw.
The fancy, wrapped box near the tree is almost overflowing with tins of Campbell's soup or corn or peas, pasta boxes and Froot Loops – all donations for families in need.
The window ledge is filled with treats for our party that will begin after afternoon recess.
When the bell rings, we bundle ourselves up for the blast of cold that is Winnipeg in December and we are all outside sliding, buzzing with excitement and anticipation of the holidays.
Yet, I notice another buzz of excitement; everyone is looking in my direction as they talk behind mittens, pointing and laughing.
At least that's how it seems to me. The boys are huddled together, pushing and shoving, deciding who will next be elected to race over to the girls on a reconnaissance mission to find out what we know.
They buzz back and forth like the now long-dead flies of summer.
"Stephen Duff got your name!" one shouts.
"Hope you get to open your present first!" another chants, and they all race off laughing.
We girls have our own stealth manoeuvres and soon, Rosemary, who is a year older and has a few key connections among the boys, returns with the terrible truth.
She knows what Secret Santa is giving me. There are whispers and condolences and sincere hopes that maybe the boys are wrong.
I thought Stephen was my friend. He even has the same birthday as me. Of all the things under $2 at Clark's Department Store, he can't possibly have done that, can he?
Maybe he didn't buy the gift. Maybe his mom thought it was a perfectly pretty little gift for a girl? An innocent mistake? But then, maybe she didn't buy it. Maybe he did, as a good-humored joke, only it doesn't feel at all humorous at this moment and I'm actually feeling a little sick.
I don't want recess to end. I want to just run off the playground and all the way home. I don't care any more that there are Old Dutch barbecue potato chips to be eaten, Coca Cola to drink, sugar cookies with sprinkles and candy canes to crunch. I just really want to go home. But both mom and dad were at work.
The bell rings, my palms are sweaty, in spite of how cold it is outside. My heart is pounding in my chest and I am trying to pretend the tears in my eyes are from the cold and not from the soon-to-arrive public humiliation.
Mercifully, my name is not the first one drawn.
We all watch and wait with baited breath to see who got what.
Yet, all these years later, I remember none of those gifts but mine.
I do remember when Mrs. Yaskiw called my name and handed me the soft, squishy package. But I didn't rip at the paper or pull at the bow.
Instead, I calmly pronounced, "I can't open this now. My mom says we can only open one gift before Christmas Day. And it can only be on Christmas Eve night. And it can only be the one for me from my Auntie Mary in Germany from the box of treasures she sends us each year. But I'll put this one under the tree till Christmas Day. Thank you, Secret Santa … whoever you are."
Looks all around.
Slight disappointment on the faces of some of the boys, giggles and cajoling and coaxing "Oh come on! Just open it!"
But I stand fast. Maybe it's the look on my face that Mrs. Yaskiw responds to and she lets me quickly hide the package in my bag.
The food is all gone, the records back in their sleeves, the classroom cleaned, our bags packed with reindeer and wobbly Yule logs for the vacation. We're bundled and wrapped and lined up to go.
The bell rings and I shoot out the door, my friend Rosemary waiting down the hall for me.
We run all the way to her house, midway home for me, open the back door to the little landing where the stairs lead down to the basement, three steps up to her kitchen. We yank our mitts off and I fling the squishy package on the top step.
Now I rip off the wrapping. It was true! There in my hands is a pair of white full-brief panties delicately decorated with the days of the week to wrap around my little cheeks!
December arrives. I still hate Secret Santa.
And just the other day, one of my students called out, "Can we pleeeease do Secret Santa?"
I didn't answer immediately.
"Well," I said. "First, let me tell you a little story …"
Valdine Ciwko lives in Vancouver.