Branch Come Home Year

August 9-19, 2007

Horses’ Bells and Hip Rubbers

By: Marina (Power) Gambin

Previously published in The Telegram and The Herald

As time passes and middle age takes a more powerful stronghold on my memory, much of my time gets taken up with recollections of yesterday. This nostalgic journey gets even more melodramatic in these days leading up to Christmas. Hence, a few seasonal stories emerge and the following account is one of my favourite remembrances.

 

I grew up in Branch in the 1950s, the second oldest of seven children. My bachelor uncle, Cyril Power (whom we affectionately called Sooley), lived next door to us. With hindsight twenty-twenty,  I now see that he was one of the nicest men that ever lived. He was smart, unassuming, kind, friendly and he dearly loved the effervescent taste of anything fermented. Having no children of his own, my siblings and I became his surrogate family.

 

I recall the Christmas of 1959. The fishery had not been good that year, my father was sick and  times were a bit hard for our family.  My oldest brother was five years old and quite excited about Christmas. Besides asking Santa for a gun and holster set with caps and a dump truck, he mentioned that he really wanted a pair of black hip rubbers. With five more children requesting gifts from Santa, my mother tactfully explained to my brother that maybe he could get the rubber boots later in the winter or early in the spring. I am sure that, like any five-year-old, he did not accept the fact that Santa couldn’t meet his demand.

 

However, time slipped by and Christmas Eve rolled up on the calendar. My brother hung up his stocking in anticipation, still hinting about the rubber boots. He and my younger sister were too excited to go to bed. It must have been eleven o’clock or later when the sound of bells suddenly filled the air, causing a collective rush for the bedrooms. On Christmas morning, there were no rubber boots under the tree and the little fellow couldn’t hide his disappointment.   

 

To this day, I can still see Sooley coming in from next door with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a broad smile on his face. “Santy Claus came to our house and left something by the chimney.” The smaller ones bounded next door in their pyjamas ignoring the cold. I cannot recall everything they found, but I distinctly remember my five-year-old brother plowing back through the snow with his brand- new hip rubbers which were filled with a variety of candy and fruits. The look in the little fellow’s eyes showed unmitigated happiness and absolute belief in Father Christmas.

 

Years later, my mother informed me that the ringing of the horses’ bells on that unforgettable Christmas Eve had been commissioned by Sooley to impress the nieces and nephews he loved so much. He had also communicated with Santa about the need for a pair of black hip rubbers as well as facilitating with all our Christmas favours.

 

Five Christmases have come and gone since Sooley passed away. Every year at this time, I fondly ponder on that Christmas of  ’59 which was epitomized by horses’ bells, hip rubbers and a fantastic uncle. He was what Christmas is all about.