We have never had cranberry sauce on our table up until we began sharing turkey dinners with family friends who requested it – this year. I didn’t really know why until my mom did serve it at Thanksgiving.

For every turkey dinner my mom’s family shared, my Grandma would purchase a can of cranberry sauce, but it would never get to the table. Apparently Grandma would be in such a rush every Christmas that she would always forget to open the can. It became tradition for everyone to sit down, and a few minutes into the meal Grandma would say “Oh no! The cranberry sauce!” and everyone would tell her not to worry about it. 

It turns out, cranberry sauce on a leftover turkey sandwich is the best thing since... well the turkey dinner itself. I’ve been missing out my entire childhood!

Another tradition we had growing up wasn’t really something we hoped to happen, but it was the continued destruction/attempted foiling of the Christmas surprise by my brother Eric. 

We used to have a beautiful tree of bright red shiny ornaments and mismatched childhood baubles that graced our tree every year – until Eric got a remote control race car for Christmas.

Eric ripped open the wrapping, gleefully tore the box apart and after the batteries were fitted, off zoomed the car. It veered immediately into the trunk of the tree and CRASH.

Timber, went our beautiful tree as if it were straight out of a movie. The glass ornaments shattered, creating a Christmas mess I’m sure my mother will never forget. 

After that fateful Christmas, we bought all new decorations. Mom got to upgrade from the ‘80s-style tinsel tackiness, and created a gold and silver-themed tree we still enjoy today. 

After moving to B.C. in 1997, Eric got into snowboarding, so his Christmas present the next year was a brand new snowboard. He was so excited, and so sure he was getting it that he convinced my sister Ally and I to help him hunt for it. We knew where it was – hidden under Mom and Dad’s bed in their room. We searched the closet, the drawers, everything, until Eric suggested under the bed. Ally and I instinctively offered, and went to either side, pulled up the bed skirt to reveal the board, and cried, “Nothing’s here, Eric!” 

He was disappointed that we never found it, but on Christmas morning he discovered he had been tricked. 

Christmas ‘97 was the best for me. I remain the only person ever to have actually received a pony for Christmas. 

When we moved to B.C., we inherited a pony named Spud with the farm we moved to. He was a bit evil, and was capable of faking a limp to get out of a ride, but I loved that pony. Unfortunately we only had him for a month before he got colic, which is when a horse’s intestines twist. It can be incredibly painful, and lethal. Spud died in the early hours of Nov. 11. I was nine years old and devastated. 

In the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, my brother and sister snuck out of the house and ran down the highway to a neighbour’s to fetch my new pony – a beautiful dapple grey Welsh named Emrys. 

Emmy was terrified walking down the dark highway with people he had just met. My brother hadn’t gotten into the horses like his two sisters, but he certainly had a soft spot for them. To calm poor Emmy down as they walked the half kilometre to our farm, he sang, “You’re a noogit, you’re a noogit, you’re a neener nanner noogit.”

At Christmas I had about one present under the tree, and I was a bit disappointed. Dad suggested we head down to the barn to give the horses some Christmas snacks. 

We turned on the lights, and little Emmy poked his head out of the stall, blinking in the new light and whinnied to me. It was love at first sight. 

And until I get another pony or horse for Christmas, it will remain the best Christmas ever.

DISCLAIMER: The Last Word is an opinion column, it is meant to provoke thought and debate. As such, any opinions written here are the writers own and do not reflect the viewpoint of any other Fitzhugh staff member or the directors of the Jasper Media Group Inc.