Canadian Christmas: Family, Friend, Gifts, and Emus

(I'm a few days late starting this, but better late than never...)

Canada, a land frozen for ten months of the year and infested with blackflies for the other two, is very fond of its Christmas tradition. In the days leading up to Christmas, all Canadian villages are bustling with preparations for the big day. This year, I'd like to share with you the twelve days leading up to our Canadian Christmas.

Today began at the crack of dawn as my brothers and I prepared the dog sleds for the hunt. Normally, we use six to ten dogs per sled, depending on the size of the animals we hunt. Today, we supplemented the dog team with a handful of lemurs, for our quarry is the spotted snow emu, which can grow to at least 4 metres in height and weigh about 300 kilograms. Its wingspan dwarfs a small airplane. The snow emu is a dangerous predator while in flight, and emus tend to flock together in squadrons of three or four. For safety, we hunt them at night when they're sleeping in their burrows.

Normally the task of leading the hunt falls to the eldest son, but since my brother, Bob, moved to the village of Winterpeg, which is near the arctic circle, the task has fallen to the second eldest, Doug. My younger brother, also named Doug, has taken part in the hunt ever since he was old enough to complete the rites of ascension.

Meanwhile, at the family home in Steveston, my parents and the other villagers are building the communal feasting igloo, which is much larger than a normal igloo. When complete it will accommodate all 34 of the villagers, the fire pit, and a stage where Anne Murray will sing Snowbirds and selections from Anne Murray's Classic Christmas. We used to have Mr. Shatner host the evening, but his rendition of I Am Canadian began to wear on us after his fourth encore. We politely suggested that he remain in California this year and enjoy a little sun on behalf of all his fellow Canucks.

Céline, on the other hand, is always welcome to our village at Christmas — her vocal talent can frighten off even the most vicious of polar bears, thus keeping Christmas safe for all.

Having loaded the sleds with supplies, Doug, Doug, and I donned our parkas and snowshoes and set out into the snowy wastes, in search of the burrows of the spotted snow emu.

By nightfall, the Dougs and I set up camp near the habitat of the spotted snow emu. We quickly built a roaring campfire on which I prepared a quick meal of back bacon, smoked salmon, and poutine. After the meal, Doug (the older one) pulled out his accordion and played a beautiful rendition of Be My Yoko Ono with the other Doug accompanying him on the spoons. We fell asleep with the silence broken only by a distant whistling marmot. I think it was whistling Stormy Weather, but I couldn't be certain. That wouldn't bode well for the hunt.

We awoke to strong winds that made the lemurs nervous. Camp coffee and a brief meal of bison jerky started the day before we set out on snowshoe.

The best way to hunt the spotted snow emu is to surprise it with a free keg of surprisingly strong Canadian beer. We placed the bait and settled behind the blind to wait for darkness to fall.

I imagine that the villagers of Steveston have almost completed their igloo. Even as I write this, the children are probably preparing the offerings of arctic hare. Making an offering of a hare, it is thought, will appease the wrath of Bonhomme: the fearsome snow creature that wears a sash and toque stained red with the blood of naughty children. At the coming of Bonhomme, all children must chant the refrain, "Salut Bonhomme, Salut le Bonhomme cannibale...", lest they be carried off to Bonhomme's kingdom and eaten on snow with hot maple syrup.

Dusk approaches. I should stop writing and help Doug and Doug with that flask of CC.

Success! After a long vigil behind the emu blind, our quarry took the bait. The spotted snow emu emerged from its burrow only long enough to drag the keg underground. An hour later, armed with shovels, we extracted the giant avian from its hole and lashed it to the largest of our dogsleds. The feast would be very flavourful this year — the emu had consumed the entire keg.

The trip home was full of song and laughter. Our arrival at the village was marked with fanfare and cries of G'day, eh! After unhitching the dogs and lemurs, Doug slipped off to see his family, while the other Doug and I beat the emu senseless with the Barenaked Ladies box set.

Tonight, Sunday night, will be a quiet one. That is, as long as the Mounties can defend the village perimeter from the roving packs of beavers, which, at this time of year, leave their dams to raid villages for food.

Tragedy struck in the night. Several beavers broke through the Mounties' defenses and dragged off Peter Mansbridge. There was a short delay before launching a search and rescue attempt — apparently some people felt that Ralph Benmergui deserved more airtime anyway, while others didn't think we should direct more public resources towards the CBC.

In light of the morning's events, we chose to forgo tonight's planned festivities. The dwarves are disappointed, but I think they understand our reasons.

The search for Peter Mansbridge continued until about ten o'clock last night, when somebody noticed that Peter was reading the news on The National. Baffled by this, we abandoned the search.

This morning, we walked over to the prime minister's place to get some answers. We arrived to find Jean and Aline stringing up their arctic hares for Bonhomme. It was a touching moment, and we hated to intrude on their Christmas preparations, but this was important.

As any Canadian knows, it's tough to get a straight answer from Jean. Doing so usually involves sitting around the fire listening to Jean babble incoherently while he waves his Inuit sculpture threateningly. Jean likes reliving the glory days when he could personally attack citizens at will.

Eventually we got some answers, but only after agreeing to let him throttle Premier Campbell. It seemed like a good deal to us, but things got messy when Gordon pulled out his pepper spray, making Jean cry, "Dat's no fair! For me, pepper, I put it on my plate!"

As it turns out, the Peter Mansbridge we had seen on the National was a clone. Moreover, we haven't had a real Peter Mansbridge since the 80s. Well, the clones are doing a fine job — possibly better than the original, although, according to Jean, they have a repulsive habit of polishing their forehead with oolican oil.

Amazing. I'd just assumed that Peter liked Old Spice.

With that settled, we trudged home to continue our Christmas preparations.

This morning, I began my Christmas shopping. In this respect, I'm like our American cousins to the south, in that I buy presents. Traditionally, Canadians make their own gifts, which are usually sewn from furs or skins. Hats, mittens, mukluks, wallets, purses, umbrellas, interesting underwear — all are hand-made for each person on our Christmas list.

In Canada, everyone is involved in the fur industry, and we enjoy the limelight it attracts. Why, every year we get hundreds of tourists hoping to take part in Vancouver's famous seal hunt. They come in droves from all over the world to encounter nature in its majesty. When you return with a sledful of baby seal pelts after a long day out on the ice, it's a glorious feeling — especially if you clubbed them yourself!

Now, I'm not very handy with the leatherwork, so I threw on my snowshoes and hiked from my parents' igloo south to the ice floes of the mighty Fraser River. At the trading post by the river's edge, a clever shopper can haggle for all of the skins, furs, and handicrafts they need for the season at a very reasonable price.

Caveat emptor, Canadians often say. In fact, I believe that's even engraved on the side of those used subs that we bought from the Royal Navy. That motto particularly applies to shopping for seal furs, because some unscrupulous vendors will substitute any shiny, fur-bearing animal in its place. For example, last year my parents gave me a sweater that turned out to be knitted with possum fur! Oh, the embarassment that caused. Fortunately, the sweater is quite warm and I can now play dead when the need arises.

I wandered between the aisles and kiosks of the market, breathing the heavy scent of fried blubber and tanning seal skins. Even before noon, the market was thronging with furriers, shoppers, foodsellers, and tourists in North Face parkas taking photos of absolutely everything. At one point, a tourist asked for directions to the nearest corner store. A silence fell and confused looks were passed around. In Canada, you see, there are no "corner stores" — in fact, there are no corners at all in our villages, because our igloos are round. A dozen or so helpful villagers directed him to the nearest depanneur while apologizing profusely.

By afternoon, I had an armload of baby seal products and a few blubber snacks to hold me until dinner. Christmas is only seven days away. So much to do, and so little time! I wonder how Doug is making out with that emu?

ROFLMAO

You made the people at work look at me funny since I'm supposed to be coding operative reports.

L.U.I.C (laughed until I cried)

As I said, I returned home yesterday morning to see how Doug was making out with the emu. He was almost to "first base" when I found them, so I gave them a little privacy.

The evening of the seventh day before Christmas marks the day we trek to the forest to find a Christmas tree. As the Dougs and I were choosing our saws, Premier Campbell dropped in to offer his assistance, which we gratefully accepted. Gordon, you see, is an expert in forestry practices and often astounds the villagefolk with his wisdom. Not long ago he revealed that there is more old-growth forest now than there was 100 years ago. Amazing! At this rate we can clear-cut entire mountain ranges for decades and always come out ahead. Gordon is a very clever Canuck, and we're so proud to have him in our village.

With that, we set out to find the perfect tree. Gordon's mastery of the saw thrilled us and soon we had a great pile of felled trees to choose from. We left behind the largest of them, and instead chose one less than a metre across in the trunk. Against the cut end of the trunk, we pitched a lean-to and bedded down for the night, falling asleep while Gordon gleefully counted the hundreds of rings of our tree's great bole.

The Dougs, Gordon, and I arrived home this morning with the tree in tow, and settled in at the Campbell igloo for a hot breakfast of spotted owl poutine. Gordon entertained us during the meal with stories of his rise to power when, suddenly, he began to gag and choke, and turned blue in the face. Luckily, his twin brother, Larry, stepped in and performed the Heimlich, which dislodged the offending object. Somehow, Gordon had choked on the wishbone. That's what happens when you eat too quickly, I suppose.

I'm looking forward to this evening, when we erect the tree in the village centre, which always puts a warm glow in the hearts of the village men. Then we'll string it with garish baubles and blinking lights and gather round, sing folk songs, and quaff pints of mulled beer until we fall unconscious.