A Christmas tradition that will never fade

Annual drive to look at Yuletide lights sparks memories – and connects generations

Dec 19, 2008

Comments on this story (4)

Special to the Star

I used to watch my father high up in our maple tree every year, wrapping string after string of Christmas lights to ever-growing branches. Then he'd hang a huge wreath out front, more lights twinkling as he wrestled with the tangled mass of wires that would bring the bulbs to life. He would be cold, he would be cut, he would be cussing ... and he never missed a year. He wasn't the most traditional guy, and as we kids got older, I wondered why he bothered.

My mother, on the other hand, loved Christmas. Her love of how Christmas looked and smelled far exceeded her need to have it actually give anything back. She baked for weeks, she decorated the house from top to bottom, she wore special Christmas aprons and she sang. I will never forget her singing.

She would tell us of growing up in England during the war, how shortages and rationing made Christmas celebrations a true testament to spirit and hope. "Didn't you miss getting presents?" I said, and I'm sure my eyes widened in horror. "No," she replied, "what I missed were the lights. We couldn't have Christmas lights."

And so my father would drag in a huge tree every year; and every year we would pile in the car, just to see the Christmas lights.

We would prowl around the streets of our town – it was still a town – loving the fact that so many had put on a display just for each other. We prayed that an entire street had gussied itself up – then my father would be forced to creep along, as oohing and aahing requires a slower speed. Occasionally, an animated display would require so much attention we'd beg Dad to do a loop and come back.

"Can we get out?" we would ask, noting others actually got to stand on the curb, breathing in the cold night air.

"No."

This actually didn't matter much. My mom would make my younger sister and me nests in the back of the old station wagon, and we would take in the panoramic view while everyone else was confined to their seats. Getting out would have required putting our coats back on, and finding our boots. "Going to look at the lights" was an event you prepared for.

I'm not sure when we stopped. But I do know when we started again.

1994. Christopher was three when I asked my mom if she wanted to come to Niagara Falls with us. I knew it had terrific Christmas displays. She instantly volunteered their new car – the 1994 Intrepid. I was driving a two-door Acura Legend, not a good looking-at-the-lights car at all if you were trapped in the back seat. Though Christopher was perfectly happy looking at the lights on our own street, with a little bewilderment he let me snuggle him into Grandma's car in his pyjamas, a quilt poked around him, his boots on the floor.

As we drove down the dull stretch of the QEW towards Niagara Falls, he excitedly pointed to the red blinking lights on a radio tower. No, we told him, those weren't the lights. Minutes later, his eyes widened as we passed the John Deere showroom, a string of multi-coloureds outlining the front-end loader displayed out front. Nope, not yet we told him. Mom asked if he wanted to sing Christmas carols, and he sang "Jingle Bells" – off-key – for half an hour.

Rounding the main drag across from the Falls 40 minutes later, his eyes lit up in wonder. Huge displays from Disney, depicting every fairy tale, every movie, every character. I crept along at a speed my father would never have entertained, turning to come back as the lights faded.

"Can we go again?" Christopher asked.

We went again, then left the glare of Disney behind. We headed down the darkened road. Suddenly, Mom spotted more lights up ahead, seemingly down into the forest. There were no other cars. Dufferin Island, a sign told us, indicating we should turn right on a road disappearing through the trees.

Christopher was mesmerized. Against the silent blackness of the forest, incandescent deer grazed near a huge moose. Wolves howled, fishermen pulled fish from beneath the ice, a series of birds flew overhead.

"Wow! Look! That beaver chewed the tree down!" Over and over, the tree went down. Over and over, my small son laughed.

Rounding the final bend, a giant Noah's Ark reflected in the water, old Noah himself waving to us. As we stopped near the exit, volunteers cheerfully handed us pamphlets, and Mom gave Christopher some loonies to throw in their collection bucket.

1996. Slowly, a tradition took root where the old one had left off. Every year, we would go to Niagara Falls to see the lights. My mother and I in the front, Christopher, and then young Ari, in the back. We began to stop for hot chocolate on the way home – a reward from a mom who wouldn't let them get out in the drizzly cold near the Falls. Each year, small sleeping boys were carried into the house.

1998. Christopher announced we were bringing his friend Raymond.

"We have enough seatbelts. Raymond's mom doesn't have a car, so he should come," he told me solemnly. And so began the custom of filling all the seatbelts.

2000. Seatbelts in the Intrepid were enough for the boys to bring both Alex and Catherine, two sisters they'd been friends with forever. But room only because Grandma had passed away in March, and our tradition kept on without her.

"Grandma would have loved the dinosaurs," said Ari, then 6, pointing to a new display. Noah was also waving to a new whale, and several dolphins. I handed out loonies to the kids for the collection. Ari was right. Grandma loved whatever the boys loved.

2002. I caught Christopher calling everyone he knew. We'd finally gotten a Montana minivan.

"Seven seatbelts! We can take seven people!"

I gently reminded him that I needed to drive, and perhaps the man who now lived with us might want to come along.

"That still leaves five!" he said, heading for the phone.

With a new van jammed with chattering kids, everyone clutching their own small can of Pringles and a Pepsi with a lid ("Did everyone pee?"), we set off.

Coats and boots were abandoned as the van heated up, and my suggestion that we sing carols produced off-colour lyrics they believed they had invented.

2006. A new van that still hasn't been to Niagara at Christmas. The boys have outgrown their awe – the first year Christopher realized it was three birds, lit one after the other, not one magically ascending the treetops – should have been a warning.

The magic of the Christmas lights will come back – it always does. After all, I remember myself nestled in the back of an ancient station wagon every year. I remember two little boys who believed it was their mission to make sure all their friends got to see them too. I also remember finally asking Dad one year why he always put up the lights.

"For your mother," he'd said.

But he really did it for the little English girl, thrilled to have the lights back on.

Toronto Star