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When Penguin asked me to write a guest column for the holiday season, maybe something about my Christmas traditions, I have to confess I was stumped. I know no one would expect me to be a Martha Stewart, but I couldn't think of any traditions at all. Does dashing through the malls in a panic-induced sweat on the evening of December 24 count as a tradition? How about failing to get the lights up in a timely fashion? Or eating too much turkey on Christmas Day? How about wrapping presents in a way that suggests a small animal with no opposable thumbs had actually done the job? What about finishing off an entire glass of eggnog at a neighbourhood party before remembering what eggnog does to my digestion?
That's not to say that I don't enjoy Christmas, but rather that Christmas itself is something that seems a little out of my control, not exactly subject to my influence or my traditions, something that never fails to sneak up on me and take me by surprise (even if it is a pleasant surprise).
Then my producer, Jess, reminded me that actually I do have a number of Christmas traditions, and that my Christmas preparations start earlier than most people's. In fact, it's around about Labour Day that I begin planning for Christmas. Or, to be accurate, the Vinyl Cafe Christmas. That's when I start thinking about the Christmas story, about what aspect of Dave and Morley's complicated and convoluted holiday happenings I might tell you about come December.
Next, in early October, while the Christmas story is brewing away in my head, I get the Vinyl Cafe band together to see what festive thoughts they may be having for the Christmas show. First, John Sheard, the pianist and musical genius of the Vinyl Cafe concerts, comes over to my place with a bottle of Scotch and some takeout Chinese food, and to be perfectly honest, not a lot of work gets done. Then we try it again—I provide some red wine, we order pizza, but not surprisingly, the evening turns out to be less than productive. By the end of the month, provoked by our looming deadline, we agree that John will come over in the morning. I will make coffee. There will be no eating. We won't leave my living room until we have some ideas on paper. And so the show begins.
During the last week in November, after more meetings and several rehearsals, we take Christmas on the road. The band and I gather at Chris Whiteley's house, where we wait for Ted Dekker to show up in the enormous RV he has rented to take us on tour. When he arrives, we all scramble into the RV like excited school children heading off for a field trip. Then the tour rituals begin. First, there is the perennial squabble over seating arrangements. Don't get me wrong. It's not as if there aren't enough seats, but some are better than others. Or to be precise, some are better for certain people than others.
The best seat is probably the passenger seat up front beside Ted, our driver. It's a big roomy bucket seat with plenty of leg room, but you have to sit up there alone. With Ted. Now before you jump to the conclusion that I'm not fond of Ted, let me say that he is a most likeable guy. It's just that he isn't much of a driver. What Ted possesses in warm, good natured charm, he lacks in stamina. About an hour and a half into any road trip, Ted begins to rub his eyes in an exaggerated, theatrical way. He twists his head from side to side as if working out the kinks, and then he begins to moan softly. Following all of this, of course, there are glances in your direction. So, you can imagine, if you aren't of a mind to take over the driving, sitting up beside Ted can be mighty awkward.
There are also bench seats that run alongside the little table and are entirely too cramped and confining for anyone over five feet, five inches. And the bed at that the back of the camper that only has appeal if you want to lie down. And the long straight seat that runs, underneath the window that is really the best place for someone who is tall, thin, and the host of a popular national radio show.
Once we've all got settled into our seats, we break out the food. There are clementine oranges and salted almonds, and someone always manages to smuggle a little Christmas baking from their house. Sometime during the first few hours on the road, a cellphone will ring, and everyone will stop munching and crunching while the person on the phone explains why he took the cookies his daughter made for the school bake sale. Apologies will be offered. Sometimes grovelling is necessary. There is a brief moment where everyone feels guilty about gorging on the purloined cookies, and then the eating will start again.
Later, someone will ask Ted to stop at the next gas station or roadside restaurant so we can use the washrooms. Ted will patiently explain why this is not possible. There will be several minutes of stony silence.
Eventually John will begin to do his Sean Connery—James Bond imitations. Lisa will do all the female voices, occasionally punctuating the discourse with short bursts of Christmas carols, all done in her best chipmunk voice. Jokes will be told and bad puns made. Dennis will eventually take pity on Ted and get behind the wheel. Chris will convince him to pull off the highway for coffee.
Before long, we'll be back on the road, closing in quickly on our first stop of the Christmas tour.
But before we hit the concert hall, we'll do one of my favourite holiday tour rituals—a real Christmas tradition, I guess. We'll check out the decorations. In each town we visit before pulling up to whatever hotel will be home that night, Ted manoeuvers the RV through the downtown core while the rest of us peer through the windows at the lights and displays that line the street. Lisa is partial to those tiny white lights that people thread through the boughs of the boulevard trees. Me, I like the big flashy multicoloured extravaganzas, heavy on the red and green. I remember last year, winding our way through the streets of Sarnia on the night before the first concert. It was cold and a bit windy, with tiny snowflakes speckling the sky. And there between a break in the buildings on Christina Street, we spotted the Christmas lights display alongside the St. Clair River. We all shouted to Ted, and he patiently wrestled the camper back so that we could drink in the brilliant lights that lit up the dark sky along the river like a fireworks display frozen in mid-burst. It was a lonely, yet beautiful sight. And I knew that Christmas, for me, had truly begun.
For Stuart McLean's tour schedule, visit CBC's website.
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