By Sharron Arksey
For more than 30 years, Christmas Eve meant going to Amma and Afi’s house.
My maternal grandparents Skapti and Runa Sigurdson moved to Lakeland on the southwest shore of Lake Manitoba in the early 1950s. Previously they had lived in the Vogar area, just east of Lake Manitoba Narrows. Their five children married and raised families in Lakeland and Langruth.
Amma and Afi’s house, a large square two-storey structure, was full of delightful surprises. Like the dumbwaiter in the pantry, for example. Or the stairway that led down to the hall or into the kitchen, depending which way you turned. There were forgotten rooms on each floor that opened onto verandas and the walls of the room where we hung our coats were lined with mounted deer, elk and moose heads, a bequest from the previous owner. There was much to discover and plenty of space for 15 grandchildren to explore.
Each Christmas gathering followed a familiar routine: the turkey supper followed by dishwashing duties with the grandchildren asking “Are you done yet?” every five minutes; the ritual photography session in front of the Christmas tree, and then the gift opening. Uncle Einar, my mom’s brother, had the honour of distributing gifts from under the tree. Amma was always the last to open her gifts and we would gather around to watch, rather like loyal subjects holding court with the Queen.
Then there would be music, with Uncle Einar on the guitar. Most often Aunt Doris accompanied him on the piano and the rest of us would do the singing, one carol after another. We would always ask Uncle Einar to do a yodeling song for us though, Christmas or not, since he knew how and the sound amazed us.
By that time the coffee would be ready and Amma would bring out bowls of Christmas oranges and nuts, along with plates of vínarterta and war cake. Because it had no eggs, butter or milk, this boiled raisin cake had been a wartime Christmas fruit cake and the family continued the tradition.
Eventually it would be time to warm up the cars, gather our belongings (both old and newly-acquired) and head home - but not before a hug and a “Gledileg jol elskan’ from Amma and Afi in turn.
Time brought changes. In the late 1960s, Amma and Afi moved to a smaller residence on the property and their son Asgar and daughter-in-law Doris moved into the big house. Grandchildren grew up, got married and had children of their own. In addition to the ‘adult’s table’ in the dining room and the ‘children’s table’ in the kitchen, we now had to set up a third table in the living room. Afi passed away in 1976 and Amma in 1989.
At that time, it was decided to bring an end to the Sigurdson Christmas Eve tradition and individual families began their own.
Every year I relive some of those Christmas memories, but the memories have become particularly poignant. In the summer of 2010 the house burned to the ground after an electrical malfunction. Luckily, my cousin and his family were not in the house at the time. When the last of the flames had been tamed, all that remained standing was the living room fireplace.
I am reminded that memories are more than bricks and mortar, but also that only by sharing these memories can we hope to keep them alive.