Hay Rides and Sleigh Bells on Banks of the Cowichan River

Is it really that time of year again? Where does time go...?

I found this great photo, unframed, at a local flea market, years ago. Alas, there’s nothing on the back to give it provenance. The little girl’s outfit could be, what, 1940s or ‘50s? The expression on her face, the look in her eyes, was nothing like I experienced as a toddler when my mother took me to see Santa in the front window of the Hudson’s Bay Co. in Victoria. He seemed a giant to me, and frightening, rather than friendly. What did I want for Christmas? I just wanted to go home! —*Author’s Collection*

This week, the Chronicles observes the coming Yuletide with a look back at Christmas as it was celebrated a century ago in the Cowichan Valley, and as recounted by Margaret Williams in 1971.

It was a different world back then. Life, or so it seems to us now, was slower and simpler, oriented more to family and friends and traditions than to the comparative frenzy and commercial glitz of today.

So be it; it is what it is, as that tiresome expression goes.

Hence this nostalgic look back at Christmas in the 1920s; back to when country life, not just in Cowichan but throughout British Columbia, seems almost idyllic by today’s standards.

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In 1971, Margaret Williams wrote:

I remember Christmas, when we were young, in the days when Christmases seemed very far apart indeed. Now that I am old, time seems short, much too short, between between one December and the next.

In those days, more than half a century ago, we always had a family Christmas at The Cliffs, that huge, rambling old house, standing in its gardens and orchards, high on the banks of the singing Cowichan.

The Cliffs, also know as Cliffs School for Girls, beside the Cowichan River, as drawn by Andree Williams.

This strange old house was designed by Harry Wilson. One-half of it, the annex, had been moved by ox-team from the lower fields and attached to the original house, making two upstairs areas.

This property was known as The Cliffs, a girl's private school in Duncan, owned and run by the Wilsons, Miss Minnie, Miss Maude and Mr. Ronald. They were really our cousins but we called them Aunt and Uncle.

The girls, of course, had all gone to their respective homes for the holidays but besides the family there were invariably a number of friends, lonely people, people without relatives of their own, “land girls” from England or those young men known as " mud puppies” who were sent out from Old Country to places like Duncan to learn farming.

Sometimes as many as 30 sat down to dinner on these occasions. We woke early on those Christmas mornings. Our upstairs bedrooms were terribly cold and we sometimes had to break the ice in the big China jugs on the wash stand before we could, very reluctantly, wash ourselves. It was, usually, not much more than a “lick and a promise.”

There’s no mention of Santa Claus in Margaret Williams’s memoir. —*www.pinterest.com*

From our upstairs window windows we looked out over the snow-heavy garden—there always seemed to be snow for Christmas—down to the grey river, our beloved Cowichan winding swiftly down its rocky course, through the Indian reserve, under the White Bridge, through the fields and woods to Cowichan Bay.

It might be still dark, but we were wide awake because the night before we had hung our long black stockings on the bedpost, just as children do today. They were supposed to keep us quiet for a time in the morning. We would gather in my sister's room, wrapped in our dressing gowns, and explore the goodies and other bulky stockings.

We were happy with simple things then—Japanese oranges that we don't see anymore, perhaps a pencil or some crayons. It was all very exciting.

Sometimes, after breakfast, Mr. Ronald would harness Brutus and Kitty, two of The Cliffs horses, to the farm sleigh and, nestled in hay from the barn, we would be taken for a glorious ride through the winter woods, to the sound of sleigh bells and the soft sissing of the runners through the snow.

We children understood that Christmas was not only a time of feasting and a time for the giving and receiving of gifts, it was, above all, the birthday of the Christ Child. Miss Maude had most certainly gone to early communion that morning at St. John's.

Late in the afternoon, bundled in our warmest clothes, wearing leggings and galoshes, we somewhat reluctantly set forth for Sunday school, through the “Kissing Gate” to the Reserve, down the trail through the silent white wood, along the old wooden sidewalk to the church where we were greeted by the Reverend Christmas, Victor of St. John's, and affectionately known by several generations as "Father Christmas.

We never saw the Christmas tree until teatime.

Tea, on that day, was somewhat of a tradition at The Cliffs. Friends arrived from Duncan, walking along the trail above the river bank, others came by horse and buggy or sleigh, driving in from the highway and down the road which, by courtesy of the Indians, was the only access to the property at that time.

Mr. And Mrs. Fawcett came; he was the station master at Duncan for many years. The Harold Chambers came...and Miss Clack, who painted in water colours and taught the piano to the girls at the school. There were many more, but it was long ago, and I can only remember John Hall, who lived in a fascinating house made from a barn up on Gibbons Road. His brother, Will, was known as the “white king of Siam," having lived in that country for many years.

The tree had been decorated the evening before with yards of tinsel, coloured balls and old-fashioned ornaments. These ornaments had been brought down from the storage cupboards under the eaves. We called these cupboards bogie holes, and many an afternoon was spent exploring the fascinating contents of the boxes and trunks filled with costumes and props used for the school plays and fancy dresses which had been worn by children to the fancy dress balls, an annual event started by Miss Minnie and which had become a tradition in the district.

They were held in the Agricultural Hall which has been recently been demolished.

The tree had been decorated the night before with yards of tinsel and old-fashioned ornaments. —*Andree Williams drawing*

Our tree, of course, did not have electric lights, but it did have hundreds of real Christmas candles set in little metal holders and clipped to the branches. Those lovely multi-coloured, twisted candles are now a thing of the past. I suppose they were a fire hazard and had to be watched constantly and snuffed out as they became too short. There was always a bucket of water kept nearby, just in case.

Summoned to the drawing room at long last, we children beheld the tree with wonder and delight, a sparkling splendour of a tree, the tiny flickering lights brightly burning and vying with the firelight in the darkened room. Beneath it were piled our tissue-wrapped parcels.

For months we had been busy making our gifts; there was no money in those days for buying things and in any case it was the custom to make things. We were taught to sew at an early age by Miss Wilson, and we made lavender bags of organdie or bits of satin. Sometimes our mothers painted tiny wildflowers on the satin ones: wild roses, violets or the lilies which grew in such perfusion on the river bank. We filled them with English lavender which Miss Maude grew in her garden.

In the Autumn we would help her gather the lavender and it was stored in great bunches in an attic room to dry and, later, in the winter evenings, would all help to rub it from the stocks when it was stored in muscle and bags. never was there a sweeter summer scent, and almost every grown-up received at least one lavender bag to lay away amongst their handkerchiefs and linens.

We also made blotters with parchment covers and we painstakingly painted holly leaves and poinsettias on them.

When we were a bit older and more ambitious, we sometimes crocheted little tea cosies or camisole tops or knitted, very badly, long striped scarves which we presented to Mr. Robin Wilson, that beloved old man who was so much a part of the life at The Cliffs and a familiar figure in Duncan and Cowichan for 50 years and more.

After the presents came tea. The candles burned low, fires roared in the fireplaces and tea was brought from the kitchen which was at the end of a long passage—we never called it a hall.

It was perishingly cold in the passages and we rushed through them from one comparatively warm room to another. The very best cups and saucers, of a heavenly blue, were set on the hemstitched linen tray cloth in a large, round wicker tray, the teapots swaddled in an embroidered cosy, and the silver service shone.

The family silver had not yet been sold to a rich American, that would come later. We children passed plates of thin bread and butter, Miss Maud’s shortbread, simnel (a rich fruit cake), and oat cakes, followed by the rich dark fruit cake crowned with almond paste and very hard white icing. Miss Minnie poured tea.

After tea we played with our gifts, quarrelled a bit, helped in the kitchen or were sent for naps if we were very small.

The kitchen was a large room, the window overlooking the fields below the orchard. The wood stove crackled and was constantly being stoked with wood from the shed, sometimes damp and hissing. Plum pudding steamed in the Toledo cooker on the stove, the giant turkey, festooned with sausages, sizzled in the oven and great pots of potatoes. Brussels sprouts and turnips awaited their turn on the stove.

Miss Maud, in a voluminous apron, made her bread sauce which we always had, as well as the cranberry and rowan jelly. One treat I remember, was her famous spiced Hunter’s beef. This she had started to prepare months before, soaking it in brine in an earthenware crock constantly. Over the kitchen table was an illuminated text which read, “Christ is the unseen guest at this table,” a statement which was rather disturbing to us at times.

The long dinner table was laid in the school dining room. Usually, another table was added to form an L. A fireplace blazed in the fireplace, snow slid quietly off the roof and down the window panes—one year the snow came right up to the window sills, 1916, I think it was, the year our youngest brother was born.

On either side of the fireplace hung two huge engravings in gilt frames, one of Rose Bonheur’s Horsefair, the other of the Duke of Wellington on horseback, looking down upon a country picnic on the fields of Waterloo.

For the occasion the huge domestic tablecloths had been brought from their chests and pressed. After Christmas a...woman would come in to launder them again. The crested silver, brought from Scotland by Martha and William Wilson in 1880, was unpacked and polished. Beautiful branched candelabra were set on the tables and fitted with white candles.

The old-fashioned coal oil lamps which hung above the tables on chains had been freshly filled, the wicks trimmed, and the chimneys polished with newspaper. Bowls of holly, chrysanthemums and scarlet leaves were placed between the candlesticks, Christmas crackers, or bonbons, put it at each place, and bowls of salted almonds, homemade-fudge and Turkish delight, as well as crystallized orange and lemon peel, placed at intervals down the long, festive tables.

We didn't then have paper table napkins with bells and holly on them, we had great white linen ones, marvellous for tucking under small chins to save party dresses.

Christmas, as recounted by Margaret Williams, was everything we associate with Charles Dickens. Here, turkey is being served to a family of six. No fewer than 20 sat down to Christmas dinner at The Cliffs. —*www.pinterest.com*

When all was ready we took our places, Miss Minnie at the head and Mr. Ronald at the foot. Miss Maud’s beloved dogs crouched by the fire, old Guess, a brown spaniel, and Kerry, a shivering little fox terrier.

The turkey was placed in front of Mr. Ronald, brought in on a huge Wedgewood platter—which we still use in the family—the spiced beef and a ham placed alongside. Then Mr. Ronald said grace, and this, too, was a tradition at The Cliffs. He stood at the foot of the table, his gnarled hands-folded, and he said, as had his father before him: “Some hae meat, and canna eat. And some wad eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can eat. And sae the Lord be thankful.”

Down through the years, until we were growing and had children of our own, it was always a marvel how our uncle was able to carve a turkey and make it so make it go round, and round, and round, yet we always seemed to have enough. But what ages it took, when there were 20 or more, to get round to us children.

Surreptitiously, we bit into our Parker House rolls or stole a raisin or two, or kicked a brother or sister under the table just to while away the time, but eventually everyone was served and everyone happy.

Later came the mince tarts and puddings filled with sterling silver charms, tiny thimbles, buttons, or coins. We took these charms quite seriously: whoever got the thimble was certain to be an old maid and the finder of the button would surely be a bachelor. The grownups drank toasts to absent friends in homemade elderberry or blackberry wine, from the beautiful cranberry coloured wine glasses. Then everyone crossed arms and we pulled the crackers, scrambling for favours, gay paper caps, and mottoes which were read aloud.

When the tables were cleared and the dishes finally stacked away, the remains of the turkey wrapped in muslin and put in the “cold room," we went back to the drawing room. Our pretty mother was, as usual, in small disgrace, because she never would help with the clearing up if she could avoid it. However, she would sit down at the old rosewood piano and play for us, which was much more in her line.

Miss Maud, in her Christmas best, wearing her fabulous Scots agates and her dainty glace kid slippers with cut steel buckles, would recite a bit from her beloved Robbie Burns, in her soft Scottish voice, before nodding off to sleep. Miss Minnie would read, in her inimitable way, a Christmas story.

Sometimes the children would recite a poem they had learned. I remember once I recited, very badly, a poem called The Legend of Bregenz. Forty-five years later, when I was in Europe, I made a special point of going to Brendenz on Lake Constance, in Switzerland, just because of that poem learned so many years before, and found the lake, as the poet claimed, to be “Girt round with rugged mountains."

Soon, tired out, we were bundled off to bed. Most nights we were bathed in one of those flat tin baths—they call them antiques now—in front of the fire in Miss Minnie's room, but tonight we were excused. Candles were lit in the upstairs bedrooms, hot bricks, wrapped in flannel, or “stone pigs”—those earthenware hot-water bottles—placed between the icy sheets.

Perhaps there would be a quick visit by lantern light to the ivy-covered little edifice at the end of the garden. There were goodnight kisses and perhaps a tear or two and we were, finally, at the end of that most glorious event Christmas at The Cliffs.

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Could Charles Dickens have described a better Christmas than did Margaret Williams, 52 years ago?

In 2000, the Cowichan Valley Citizen reported that Margaret Williams, nee Hopkins, had recently had a number of poems and short stories published in a new book, Memories Never Lost: Stories of the Pioneer Women of the Cowichan Valley and a Brief History of the Valley, 1850-1920.

Then 93, she obliquely recalled her Dickensian Christmases of childhood with all their British tradition and trimmings. Today, her description of Christmas at The Cliffs, a girl’s boarding school, strikes us as almost idyllic. As it may have been for its residents and students.

For the more privileged, anyway. Duncan in the 1920s, she said, was “a dear little town with wood sidewalks” but “a snobby place” with distinct social divisions.