An old oak table soaked in Christmas tradition

When my family sits down for Christmas dinner, we will take our spots around a dark oak table in our dining room.

The chairs with the gaudy floral coverings will be pulled out, the paper hats put on and then we will turn to the person next to us so they can help pull apart our party crackers. Some will get a corny joke that will be read out to all, some will get a plastic ring they will try and wedge on their finger.

There will be a toast.

The table didn’t always reside in our dining room. It was my wife’s parents. And for years, the Christmas dinner was celebrated around it in their Vancouver home. We would gather in the living room beforehand to have a drink and talk about everything and nothing. Eventually, there would be children to command our attention.

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There would be other dinners at the table throughout the year, but there wasn’t any as important as the one at Christmas. My wife’s mother, Doris, had everything timed to the second. Her father, Struthers, always said a prayer beforehand, ignoring the smirks of the non-believers. There would be seconds and thirds before dessert. Eventually, the imperatives of weary children became paramount and it would be time to put on our coats. As we drove away, my wife’s parents would always be standing in the doorway, waving goodbye.

The routine was mundane, carried out year after year, after year. But we loved it and came to anticipate every moment of it.

When I think about my life and the passage of time, I often look at Christmas for signposts.

I remember, for instance, growing up in Chippawa, Ont., and Santa actually visiting our house. There would be a knock at the door, and then a “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” and the big fellow would walk into our living room to the delight and amazement of my brother and sisters. One year, when I was older and more suspicious of Santa Claus, I pulled back the curtains after he left our house. There was no Rudolph, no sleigh. I saw him drive off in a Chevy Biscayne. I grew up that day.

In my early 20s, I moved to Vancouver, met the woman of my dreams, and got married. I was enthusiastically welcomed into her family, even more so when we began producing grandchildren. The Christmas gifts I received from Doris began to change.

The year after the birth of our first child, for instance, she gave me a fire extinguisher. The next Christmas, it was a carbon monoxide detector. The year after that, it was a special flashlight that had the strength to take out a windshield in the event we found ourselves trapped inside our car, unable to get out.

Eventually, my wife’s parents downsized and their dining room table became ours. So did responsibility for Christmas dinner. It felt odd at first, me sitting at the far end of the table in the spot my father-in-law always occupied and my wife taking the end seat closest to the kitchen that was always her mother’s. At the end of the evening, our two boys would walk their grandparents out to their car. And we would all stand in our doorway waving goodbye as they drove off.

This year, we will gather for Christmas dinner again. There will be party hats to put on, and crackers to pull apart. There will be a toast. And yet it will feel different yet again. For the first time, there won’t be a grandparent to fete.

This is, of course, as life would have it. We embrace tradition and we pass tradition on for others to enjoy and nourish.

One day, hopefully, Christmas dinners will be enjoyed at one of our children’s homes. I will take my spot at the table, but it won’t be at the far end. My wife will take hers, but it won’t be closest to the kitchen. We will put on party hats, and pull crackers, and say a toast. And there will be pumpkin pie at the end. And then it will be our turn to drive off and wave goodbye to the family standing at the door.

Yes, when I think of Christmas I think of tradition. And when I think of tradition, I think of an old oak table that is soaked in it.