A Christmas Eve Story

In the years before the Second World War, the Great Depression pressed down severely. Money and jobs seemed to disappear. Many itinerants took to the roads and railways.​

Tramps and hobos were a familiar sight to my very young eyes, as the CNR and CPR lines ran side-by-side across the front of our farm between Toronto and Montreal. Nearby was a hobo jungle in some rough land by the tracks; they would gather there to share meals, make some tea, visit and catch some sleep.​

It was an everyday occurrence for hobos and tramps to appear at the door for something to eat. No one was ever turned away empty-handed. We seemed to have much; they seemed to have very little. In truth, the much we had was so mortgaged that it sometimes seemed like less. But we never thought we were poor.​

The day before Christmas one year, the wind shifted east; the morning sky hung low, dark and menacing. The storm came on, a cold driving rain, as the wind rose to a gale. Then the wind shifted northerly, the temperature dropped and the rain changed to huge flakes of wet snow, covering everything.​

Our great old house creaked and groaned against the buffets of the wind. The old shutters on the front windows rattled and the floor snapped as the house shifted ever so slightly.​

Tonight would be Christmas Eve. As we finished supper at 5:30 it was pitch-black outside. Our dog, Barney, lay facing the table, his head between his paws. Then a muffled thumping came from thedirection of the back door, unheard by those at the table. Barney rose from his spot, lifted his ears and growled. All talk ceased; when the thumping started again almost frantically this time – everyone heard.​

We all knew that some poor soul was out in this terrible storm. Father grabbed Barney while mother flew through the kitchen to the back porch. A great blast of wind blew into the house through the open doors. I heard my mother say something and the back door bang shut. Then in the kitchen my mother re-appeared, propelling a figure ahead of her.​

There in the doorway was what looked like a human snow-man. Snow and ice encrusted his cap, his eyebrows and even his eyelashes. The bottom edges of his old black overcoat were frozen stiff. He stood like a small boy with his arms out as mother peeled off his coat and hung it on the clothes rack behind the hot stove. Next came a bulky sweater and then a worn grey suit-coat, all soaked right through. Then mother steered him into a chair in front of the open oven door. Down on her knees, she unlaced his snow-filled rubber boots, propped his feet on the oven door and put his boots on the warming closet to dry. Then suddenly he began to tremble.​

Magicians have nothing on farm mothers – they can conjure up meals out of thin air. Magically a big bowl of steaming soup was being fed to the stranger. Next came an order of scrambled eggs, and finally mother made a trip to the cellar. She came back up with a jar of strawberry preserves; she even added a topping of cream. Strawberries and cream were usually for special company.​

Our stranger friend seemed completely exhausted and was bundled off to a warm and early bed.​

Christmas Day dawned bright, clear and calm. Our guest from the night before ate a late and hungry breakfast. Declining our invitation to stay and share our Christmas dinner, he departed. Standing in our back doorway, he bowed to my mother, gave a salute and a wave to the rest of us and was gone. I went to the window and watched as this lonely figure walked up the tracks and faded into the distance. What could be sadder? Homeless on Christmas Day.​

When we all finally sat down for our late Christmas dinner, we found a few things amiss. As we bowed our heads to say grace, we noticed only one drumstick on the roast goose, an extra large piece cut out of the mince pie, and a big corner missing from the Christmas cake. As we raised our heads we all glanced atone another. Nobody said a word; we all knew that mother had quietly packed away a complete Christmas dinner in the haversack of our departing friend.​

The late afternoon sun, a huge red ball of fire, was setting low in the south-west. It shone brilliantly through the living-room window onto my mother seated at the piano, her long sensitive fingers running over the keys. She played softly as we all sat around discussing the events of the last 24 hours – the storm, the stranger, Christmas.​

Who was this stranger? Why on Christmas Eve? Someone joked that maybe the stranger was God in disguise, coming on Christmas Eve to see if there was any room in the inn, a sort of test.​

I certainly did not think that mother needed any testing. I had seen her so many times, down on her knees, doctoring sick calves, nursing stray cats, and patching up injured birds. And now, these many, many years later, I would say that the stranger was God in disguise. Not to test anyone, but as a gift to remember. A Christmas gift remembered above all others.​

Written by Giles Hume, a retired farmer, was a member of Springfield (Ont.) United, a Pearce Williams Board Member, and donated $450,000 for the creation of Hume’s Hall at Pearce Williams. This article is from the December 1993 United Church Observer Magazine.

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There was this letter attached to the article with the picture of the farmhouse above: