Christmas Cards from Canada

I arose early that December morning, a hot, humid, Queensland summer day. I wasted no time in getting to work tidying the boat, for today we were receiving a visitor: a friend of a friend of my sister’s was coming on a brief business trip to Australia from Calgary.

This friend, Laura, who was bringing with her a mysterious package from home, was also, whether she knew it or not, going to perform us a favour. We badly needed her to carry back to Canada an unusual souvenir we had bought in New Caledonia.

This artifact was a primitive, life-sized sculpture of man, with elongated limbs and a goofy, smiling face. In a bizarre marriage of ancient and modern art, this strange looking creation was actually designed to be a giant compact disc holder. I had fallen in love with him the moment I saw him in Noumea, and we had dubbed him ‘Charlie Doodle’, or C.D. For short.

Unfortunately, Northern Magic does not have five square inches of surplus space, much less a spot large enough to house Charlie Doodle, and in the weeks since we purchased him, he had been stashed awkwardly in Jonathan’s tiny room, his head jammed in under the cockpit, his feet protruding into the cabin. Meanwhile, we had been plotting and planning, awaiting with machiavellian intent some unsuspecting visitor who could take him off our hands and into storage for a few years.

This Laura may not have known it, but she was destined to be that visitor. Hoping to ply her with pleasantries and a fresh tropical fruit salad, I was getting the boat presentable for her arrival and planning ways to get her to agree to lug my bulky friend back to Canada with her.

When there was a knock on our boat, I emerged through the companionway, and there she was, a nice looking young woman with a big smile on her face. ’You must be Laura,’ I said, climbing out of the cabin.

’Yes, I’m Laura,’ she said, ‘but I’m not your sister’s friend. I’m from the Citizen, and I’m here to deliver your mail.’

In her hand was a gigantic plastic bag filled with hundreds upon hundreds of letters, all tied up with a huge velvet bow.

’Yeah, right,’ I said cynically. I, the worldly-wise traveler, was not going to be taken in that easily.

’No really, I work for the Ottawa Citizen,’ she insisted.

’I don’t believe you,’ I answered. Yet some tendrils of doubt were now beginning to sprout.

’Do you want to see some id?’ she said, laughingly, ‘It’s true - the Citizen actually sent me here to deliver these Christmas cards to you. All these people have written to you.’

For the first time, I looked at the bulging bag of letters and it occurred to me that this might not be a joke after all. The camera-bearing photographer standing behind Laura’s shoulder also tended to lend credibility to her claim.

But it was the letters that clinched it. It was true: hundreds of people had actually sent us Christmas greetings. I was stunned.

Minutes before I had sent Herbert off to buy some fruit for the salad. It was more than an hour before he returned, and in the meantime the world whirled around me as I digested the knowledge that not only did this many people care about us, but that the Citizen would actually send a reporter out to deliver these greetings in person.

That night I sent an e-mail to my Dad and sister, both of whom had been gleefully lying through their teeth about the identity of our visitor and the nature of her package. Gullible as I was, I had jumped at the opportunity of a free courier and had spent most of the past two days assembling a package of last minute Christmas presents for our little Calgary nieces.

’This is the last time I’m going to believe anything you say about meeting up with someone you know,’ I wrote, remembering how, six months before, they had strung me along for weeks with a bogus story about a friend bringing a package to Tahiti when in fact the messenger was none other than my parents themselves.

’We’re sorry that having so many visitors from home is causing you to lose faith in humanity,’ Dad e-mailed back. I could just picture him wickedly chuckling at having sucked us in once again.

We spent two delightful days with Citizen reporter Laura Robin, whose wonderful package included not only letters, but even some small gifts from citizen readers. Every single letter was heart-warming and filled us with delight. How we wished we would have been able to answer every single letter with a thank you of our own.

One family sent a whole variety of little games and treats, another sent a music tape, several sent stickers for the boys, one sent special stamps, another hockey cards, and, to my great delight, I also discovered a fabulous tin of President’s Choice chocolatique cookies and two bags of honest-to-goodness Hershey’s Kisses. (in the interest of politeness, it was, of course, necessary for me to sample these last items without delay. We don’t need to quibble about what constitutes a sample, now, do we?)

We were sad to see Laura leave, as her visit and the wonderful messages she carried ended up being one of the absolute highlights of our trip to date. But we didn’t send her home empty-handed - she dragged with her a lumpy, strange looking, six-foot tall package, clumsily wrapped up in old cardboard boxes and half a roll of cotton twine. Inside was the insanely grinning face of Charlie doodle, on his way to Orleans to await our return.

Laura may have been successful in her secret mission, but we accomplished ours as well.