NORTH YORK, Ontario, 25 December 2003 — It was December 1976 and the Xmas brouhaha was on. Dad had to get rid of his 70 Chevy as the joints were rattling so badly, we couldn’t go past 30 mph. I remember seniors, in silver wigs and extra coat of rouge, whizzing by us at 45 mph in their brown Valiants. We checked out every car made here and abroad (we couldn’t afford those we couldn’t pronounce) for a week and finally settled for a cute leaf-green Sunbird — a new model of the year, pop bragged. Whizzing past seniors in silver wigs and brown Valiants, we drove off at 70 mph — four happy faces in four snow white bucket seats (even my little sis in the baby seat seemed happier as she dropped her pacifier, briefly, to get a better view of the world). Dad drove down to work in his new toy with a big grin on his face, but returned home, less the grin, by 10 a.m., rather early for a Monday. That evening he drove off again and came back, less the car. He said the new model had a few problems and that we would have to do without a car for some time.

Xmas eve, mom came back from the grocer with a gallon of milk and a can of Ravioli, my favorite meal. She said she didn’t bring a turkey and explained how cruel it was to kill so many birds on a single day. Dad pulled out last year’s plastic tree and mom installed the lights and trimmings she saved from last year. Mom and dad finished the leftovers as my little sis slurped away another bottle of milk. I asked pop for my Ravioli and insisted that I should have all of it. He warmed up the can of Ravioli and served it, but I could count only 10 pieces of Ravioli instead of the usual 12 found in each can. After I gave him the “evil eye”, dad confessed to tasting two pieces while checking to ensure they were warmed up inside. I set the plate aside for a moment, leaped up on him and gave him a “forgiving” hug.

I went to bed and before I could fall asleep, I heard a loud thump. I knew Santa has arrived and ran downstairs to check the fireplace. Sure enough, it was there — a big box packed in blue wrap. I tucked it away below the tree and went back to bed. Next morning the gift was still there, except the wrap was pink, not the blue I saw the night before. I woke dad up and asked him how the gift-wrap could change. He said, Santa must have realized his mistake of giving a girl a gift wrapped in blue, and must have come back to change it to pink. I unwrapped the gift and was happy to see my favorite, “Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop”.

A few Christmases after, dad unraveled a lot of mysteries of distant past. He told me that he was an engineer on contract and that when he got laid off at the end of contract, being a contract worker, he didn’t get a green check with his pink slip; he was not eligible for unemployment benefits. He would not go on welfare as it rubbed his dignity the wrong way and since he got fired the day after he bought the new car, he surrendered the car back to the bank to clear the loan. He added that he had no money left on that Xmas eve of 1976 to buy us gifts, after spending all his savings on a down payment for a car we owned for just a day; my friend Kathy dropped off the gift wrapped in blue while I was asleep, and when my friend Lisa came by a little later to drop off her gift wrapped in pink, mom gave the gift wrapped in blue to Lisa. I knew by now, without asking him, mom and dad shared those two pieces of missing Ravioli for their Xmas eve dinner.

I asked dad the reason some people didn’t have enough money, especially during Xmas time. Never without an answer, dad explained at length, with some arithmetic: “Imagine a big pie cut into 1,000 pieces for 1,000 people to share. Right now, 800 of them get one piece each; one of them, the richest in the 1,000, the guy that decides who gets how many pieces, gets to keep 200 pieces for himself; and the remaining 199 go hungry. But it is necessary to give the “big guy” his 200 pieces, to attract his investment, which gets those 800 people a piece each.

In other words, for the greater common good, we have to give the rich guy a lot more, even if it means a few hungry folk. You see, if everybody was employed and had the same amount of money, there would be no billionaires and no “million dollar Xmas bonus checks” to Uncle Bill, Uncle Larry, Aunt Curly, Uncle Warren and thousands of others like them. That would be a real shame to see long faces on these nice chaps, on Xmas eve, wouldn’t it sweetheart? “

Now that I am all grown up and find myself in contract employment (as if it was a genetic disorder), I get laid off every year, mid-December to early January. I guess it is the big-guys’ way of keeping us little folks on our toes for the rest of the year. I hope one day soon they will add another amendment to the constitution making Merry Xmas — a fundamental right for all.

If this piece doesn’t see a splash of printing ink, I’d have to give my jolly old pop a big can of “Ravioli” for Xmas. But I promised myself — I would give him all 12 pieces.

— Natasha Dey is a freelance writer based in Ontario, Canada.