by Roland D. Hallee

Christmas was a time for family gatherings on The Plains in the 1950s and ‘60s.

Of course, growing up, once you became aware of your surroundings, Santa Claus was always the big hit of the season. Our father, who worked at Hollingsworth & Whitney, later Scott Paper Co., would take us to the Community Building, on College Ave. The Community Building was actually the fieldhouse on the old Colby College Campus, which had moved to Mayflower Hill around 1952.

The mill would put on a gala children’s Christmas party, with the “Big Guy” as the feature. We would stand in line to wait your turn to sit on his lap and divulge to him your wishes for Christmas gifts. Of course, that was so your parents would hear. I can only remember one gift there – you only received a gift if you were younger than 12 years old – was a briefcase. It still boggles my mind what a 9-year-old would do with a briefcase. My dad ended up using it.

In the early days, Christmas was held in our living room. My mother would decorate a Christmas tree that our father had reworked by taking branches from one area of the tree, to fill a bare spot in another area. Christmas morning, our grandparents would come over, and we would do the gift exchange while our mother prepared dinner. Sometimes, just to prolong the anticipation, our dad would wait until our mother was ready to be with us. Which was mostly always.

As our mother grew older, she didn’t want to decorate a tree any more, and besides, there was this new invention called an artificial tree. It was silver, about four-feet tall, stood on a table, and was illuminated with a flood light that had a revolving colored wheel. Kind of cool, but so commercial.

In the meantime, our father had finished the basement into a “rumpus” room, and eventually, Christmas would be held down there so not to clutter the living room.

Our parents and grandparents would go to midnight Mass, and us children stayed home and waited – by then the two older brothers were teenagers in high school. That was when I found out there was no such thing as Santa, when I saw all the gifts piled behind the couch. I was 9-years-old. That was kind of traumatic at the time.

Upon their return from midnight Mass, my mother would put tourtière pies in the oven, and the soirée began. Until we had reached the age of 14, we would have to go to bed, – house rules – but the party continued into the early morning hours. Christmas gifts were not distributed on Christmas Eve. Technically, after midnight Mass, it was Christmas Day, but they didn’t see it that way.

That was probably one of the greatest disappointments in my young life. Classmates were always chosen to be the “angels” and the “shepherds” carrying the baby Jesus down the aisle in the church. Pretty much always at the head of my class, I figured I was a shoe-in for the task. But I was never chosen. For some reason, the nuns decided I was not worthy. I didn’t go to a midnight Mass until I was an adult, and married.

Enough about that.

I guess every family has its own Christmas tradition, we were no different. Of course, like anything else, as time moved on, and grandparents passed away, and parents grew older, then passed on, things changed. However, here in the 21st century, long passed the 1950s and ‘60s, we develop our own traditions, and can only hope they get passed down to the next generations to remember their Christmases with parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

by Roland D. Hallee

One of the things about growing up on The Plains in the 1950s and ‘60s, is all the wonderful things you can pass down to your children and grandchildren. Granted, they look at you kind of funny when you tell these tales, because they are not sure if you are telling the truth or trying to put one over on them.

You have to admit, times are different, and sometimes they can’t believe how life was back then.

For instance, all those “mother-isms” and wives tales that were brought down from Canada, which they grew up believing.

OK, so let’s take a look at some of them.

Growing up the third born of four boys, I got a lot of hand-me-downs from my two older brothers. When the oldest outgrew the clothes, they were handed down, cleaned and mended when needed. I can’t tell you how many pairs of pants I wore that contained patches, and mended holes. This is where I get strange looks from my grandchildren. Our mother would actually darn the holes in our socks. Today, they just throw them out and buy new ones, if they wear socks at all.

When you reached a certain height and your pant legs were now above your ankles, those pants were referred to as being “high water pants”. Meaning, of course, that should there be a flood or “high water”, your pants wouldn’t get wet.

Here are two others, usually during the winter:

Being busy with snow shoveling, building snow forts, or taking care of our backyard ice rink, we often went storming out of the house without closing the door behind us. That’s when our mother would yell, “close the door, we are not heating the outside!” But, you had to be careful. Once, in my haste for time, I went back and slammed the door behind me, breaking the glass in the process. That cost me $1.50 out of my hard-earned money from my paper route, plus a walk to the hardware store, Waterville Hardware and Plumbing, on Main St., to replace the window. It was a cold night and the wind was blowing. I was always gentle closing the door after that.

A second one was when you came back into the house, cold and shivering, and in a hurry to huddle around the wood stove. You would, again, leave the door open behind you. Thence came the call, “close the door, we don’t live in a barn!” So, we went back and closed the door, gently.

This next one is a good one. I’ve told it to a lot of people, and no one, to this day, has ever heard it before. Our mother was a self-proclaimed meteorologist.

She would get up early in the morning, and begin to get breakfast for us before taking on the task of waking us and getting us ready to deliver our paper route. On the third day of every month, she would proclaim – whatever the weather – that whatever the weather is on the third day of the month, was going to be the prevailing weather for that month. Over the last six decades plus, I have meant to keep track of that, but by the time the end of the month comes around, I have forgotten what the weather was on the third day. An inexact science that I have been unable to prove.

Speaking of the weather, here is another:

We would get up, usually it was still dark, and we would get dressed without turning on a light. Then, we’d go downstairs. If your shirt wasn’t buttoned properly – like the buttons were in the wrong button holes – our mother would exclaim, “What are you trying to do, change the weather?” That usually came when we had experienced a recent spell of nice weather. I guess it was an old wives tale, but it’s another one I haven’t been able to prove.

I’m sure there are others, but these were the ones that I remember, and actually, still use to this day, to some degree, much to the amusement of my grandchildren. Thankfully, my great-grandchildren are too young to indoctrinate them. That will come later.