Years ago when I was a kid, maybe 8 years old, I remember decorating the Christmas tree all by myself on a quiet December afternoon. I was listening (?) to Hawaiian music on the radio, that’s how i remember what I was doing, with those plunky plunk tunes an incongruous accompaniment to my efforts to create Christmas cheer. I have no memory of someone putting up the tree or of stringing the lights on it. It was probably the man who shovelled our walks.

I also don’t remember my mother baking Christmas goodies, nor do I remember visiting Santa Claus. Was Santa Claus available for visits in those days? It was 1939 and World War II had only recently begun (September). The next year—or the year after?—I remember carefully removing the silver tinsel from the branches of our tree after Christmas so that we could save it for the following year. Everything was getting scarce, but not everything. A bountiful Christmas arrived in a truck from Gimli (90 miles north of Winnipeg) from my grandfather’s store and my grandmother’s kitchen.

My maternal grandparents were Icelandic, having immigrated in in the early 1890s , first to Winnipeg where they met and married, and later to Gimli, were Afi launched a general store that’s still there, run by the fourth generation of the family (cousins of mine). I didn’t call him Afi (Icelandic for grandfather) then nor did I call my grandmother Amma (grandmother). That’s another story, related to the reason my mother did not make vinarterta, or ponnukokur, rulapilsa, kleinur, and so on. See my next book. Right now I’m recalling my Christmas memories, sketchy as they are.

Well, there was the war, and my father was young enough (40-ish) and eager enough and essential enough (a medical doctor) to be actively involved, first in Canada and then in England; he got as far as The Netherlands. So my mother was a single parent to me and my older brother for five years. That explains my Christmas memories, too.

I’m realizing all this as I/we approach the oddest Christmas in most of our sheltered lives. Think about it. I will too.

Anon, anon.

I met Joan in The Sanctuary bookstore in Cornwall about 20 years ago. I had a book-signing in the bookstore followed by a keynote speech (their designation, not mine) to a Palliative Care Group in a church hall somewhere in Cornwall. My book, Beginnings: A Book for Widows (1978) was still in print (third edition) then and selling well so I imagine that was why I was invited. I was living in Muskoka by that time and still driving so I took myself.

Well, you know what book signings are like. Unless you’re a headliner they are a lesson in humility. You sit there for the number of designated hours talking to a clerk if you’re lucky and waiting for your time to be up. I could not leave early because I had the speech to give before I left. I was lucky: I talked to the owner, Joan Levy Earle, a memorable woman, and an illuminating conversation. I always write a thank-you letter (few people do) but this time I enclosed a little gift, a relevant memento of our conversation—something to do with Emily Carr, I think, her favourite artist. (And Mark Rothko.) That started it. She wrote back. (Few people do.) I responded. (Few people do.)

Thus began a largely long-distance friendship that saw us through some heavy formative years, heavier for her, I fear. You can find out that part of her story from her first two books, Jack’s Farm. and the sequel, Train Ride to Destiny. In all, she wrote 14 non-fiction books, plus one children’s book, Gramma’s Best Friend, which I’m glad I didn’t wait till Christmas to buy for my great grandchildren. Be warned, she has a powerful message, rare these days. If her maiden name is any indication, Joan was a convert. When I knew her she was and remained a devout Catholic. Her very personal last book, The Road Home (2011), tells the story of her conversion and covers major events in her career.

You know that line,”If you were taken into custody on the suspicion of being a Christian, would they find enough evidence to convict you?”” In Joan’s case there would never have been any doubt. The first time we broke bread together, she bowed her head and said grace before we ate. Amazingly those times were blessedly (!) frequent.

After her first husband died she remarried and moved to Toronto to live, so we saw more of each other, mostly at the Art Gallery of Ontario. We made a point of attending the Members’ Previews together, and she taught me a lot. Joan was an artist, a popular one, and a gifted entrepreneur. (One has to be, these days.) I was never able to attend any of her shows, but she did well by them. She had a lot of energy and she had confidence bolstered by her faith. And she radiated love. Generous too, she kept me in hasti-notes with illustrations from her own paintings. Are they still called that? She said I was one of the few people she knew who still wrote them. I was and I do. I’m glad I still have one or two of Joan’s to keep.

Joan joined The Writer’s Union of Canada and because we both made a point of attending, we saw each other at the annual meetings. In fact, we had plans to go to the last one together by train (her treat, because she inherited free train trips after Jack died). That AGM, you may remember, was cancelled because of the pandemic. It would have been the longest elapsed time we would ever have enjoyed together.

Cherish the moments.