The Power of Love

The card arrived two weeks before Christmas, 1987.

The handwritten message from my Mom and Dad read, “Merry Christmas Henry, Olga, Nicholas & ?” The answer to the question mark was expected on December 25.

We had moved into 12 Sigmont Road on November 30 after selling the condominium, riding the wave of escalating values, leveraging the money for our first house. Nicholas was born in the two bedroom 9th floor West Mall condo, our home for three years, about to become too small had we remained much longer. Sigmont was in the same neighbourhood, an area we could afford by stretching our mortgage limit to the maximum at the comparatively cheaper 9.5% interest rate. Olga was working for Metro Children Services; I was in the midst of my first teaching contract at Seneca, hoping for another. Money was tight.

The furniture from the West Mall would need to suffice in the immediate months, spread amongst the additional rooms of the three bedroom bungalow. That old brown pull-out couch found its way to the narrow recreation room in the basement in front of our twenty inch TV. The deep red wing back chair became the main piece of our living/dining room accompanied by a crooked plant stand, a potted palm, and the walnut, cedar lined hope chest. The room was bare, plenty of room for lounging on the wall-to-wall carpet and lots of space for a real Christmas tree, tied strategically with fishing line to ensure the Scotch pine remained upright. The teddy bears of old and candy canes were among the paucity of ornaments spread among the branches, a circle of poinsettias as the topping.

Past Christmases followed a particular rhythm, consisting of an evolving set of typical proceedings. Olga and I would sing and play at the early Christmas Eve mass of Mary Immaculate Parish in London as members of the choir. Afterwards, gifts were opened into the early morning hours at my parent’s house following the traditional Dutch feast of blende vinken. When we moved to Toronto, the pattern remained the same, except we found our seat among the congregation to enjoy the beauty of the music. Nicholas’s arrival altered the sequence of Christmas celebration, limiting the late night gift opening to one item and the content of the stockings. The remaining presents were shared with the Decock family in the morning spurred by the inevitable early awakening of a young child.

Christmas of 1987 broke new ground. Olga was very pregnant, ready to give birth imminently. It would be the first year not visiting my parents for the holidays. Instead, the 24th would be an evening by ourselves, in our new Toronto home, wondering and waiting and anticipating. Olga was not examined with an ultra sound. It was not mandatory in those days and we wanted the sex of the child to be revealed at birth. We had a name picked out for a girl and were still debating one for a boy should Olga give birth to another. Olga was almost two weeks late with Nicholas, perhaps accounting for the hefty nine pound, twelve ounce size after 24 hours of labour. How would this experience be different? There were plenty of questions about the next baby.

On the night before Christmas, Nicholas was asleep, snuggled into bed as we gathered a couple chairs into the middle of the room, in front of the tree, to settle in for an evening of music. The radio dial of our cassette boom box was tuned into 102.1 CFNY for Don Berns’s Christmas Eve special. The station played alternative rock/punk, a genre appealing to our sensibilities albeit seemingly sacrilegious for the season. Renowned for being the Spirit of Radio, the playlist included old familiar classics such as Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, Canadian masterpiece God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings sung by the Barenaked Ladies/Sarah McLachlan, and the irreverent ditty, Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses. In between, Don Berns would speak of joy and hope and love in his baritone voice, unscripted, expounding on his own emotions and experiences.

Then without introduction, sweet melodic sounds began to float from the speakers,
Ay, Ay, Ay
the unmistakable voice of Frankie Goes to Hollywood surrounded by uncharacteristic lusty orchestration.
I’m so in love with you, Dreams are like angels, They keep the darkness at bay
We looked at each other in silence. Surprised wonderment. We were familiar with the song, the ballad in sharp contrast to their popular bombastic sound. It was a hit years earlier. The band was incongruent with the season; and yet, it was perfect.
The power of love, A force from above, Cleaning my soul
I held Olga’s hand, resting on her protruding belly.
Make love your goal
A Merry Christmas. A kiss. A lasting memory.

Olena was born three days later, December 27, in the afternoon, after 12 hours of labour, a healthy 9 lbs 4 oz. The Decock family also arrived that day, in Toronto, to celebrate the new birth.

Last week, a Christmas greeting card arrived in the mailbox. They are increasingly rare and are, therefore,  ever more appreciated. This one engendered a broad smile of joy for both Olga and myself. It was addressed to Baba and Opa Decock.
Love with tongues of fire, Purge the soul
The salutation is a couple months premature although we are both glowing in anticipation, counting down the days.
Love is the light, Scaring the darkness away
The answer to the previous question mark is now expecting. This year, we are not waiting for Olena; we are waiting with her. And with Daniel, and Nicholas, and Chiu. Olga and I are not aware whether the grandchild will be a boy or a girl. We would rather not know.
Love is pure, the only treasure.

Make love your goal.

However you celebrate, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy Holidays shared with the people you love.