Illustration by Juliana Neufeld
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In the 1950s, Christmas in Fort William, Ont. (now Thunder Bay) was wonderful. To a 10-year-old boy, the main downtown street was like Manhattan.
It was also the first time I had been given money to do my own Christmas shopping. I had no idea what I would buy, but my mother said I should be sure to get something for Auntie Peg.
Auntie Peg was your classic aunt, the kind every family seemed to have. She had never married. To me, she seemed like she had always been old. She was stout, wore lots of powder and clucked and chortled whenever she spoke.
Auntie Peg came to our house from Winnipeg every Christmas, and was as much a part of our holiday tradition as any tree or turkey.
It was in Kresge’s, that old discount department store, when the picture first caught my eye. It was on a pillar near the back, competing for shoppers’ attention amidst a jumble of cheap doodads hanging up and down the same crowded pole.
Our Santa reveal unravelled so many other magic family moments
The picture stopped me in my tracks. It showed a boy dressed in blue, wearing fancy, old-fashioned clothes. He must have been a prince, I thought. It was years before I realized that it was a very cheap print of Thomas Gainsborough’s Blue Boy.
I was mesmerized by it. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew that I had to buy this picture. Then it dawned on me that it would make a wonderful gift for Auntie Peg. It felt bold. It felt exciting. So in a matter of minutes, the money was exchanged and the picture was mine.
But somewhere between that bold, creative purchase and the opening of presents on Christmas morning, my view of that little Blue Boy changed dramatically. It went from being a wonderfully creative gift to what it really was: an embarrassingly cheap, hopelessly tacky, inconsequential trinket. My first time out as a shopper and I had blown it. But I was stuck with it and was mortified at the prospect of having to present it to her in front of the whole family on Christmas morning.
When the day arrived and the extended family gathered to open presents, I hated that Blue Boy more than anything in the world. I was so ashamed of it and raged at myself for ever thinking it might constitute a worthwhile gift. Everyone else was giving real presents; all I had to offer was this stupid little picture. Oh, please God, I thought, save me from the humiliation to come! She was going to open it in front of everybody, and I was going to feel like an idiot.
When my time came, I walked reluctantly up and presented my little gift to Auntie Peg. For her part, she performed like a pro. She unwrapped it carefully, expressing ever-increasing curiosity as she went, and when it was finally revealed she clucked and chortled with the best of them, holding it up and even mustering an, “Oh my, that’s lovely!”
I knew she didn’t mean it. But she knew the script well and said all the right things. To bring a quick end to my tortuous ordeal, I was almost relieved to receive my ritual hug, powder and all.
In 20 years, a lot can change.
My contact with our relatives out west faded as I got older. But decades later, my wife and I took a six-week road trip. When we arrived in Russell, Man., family drove us to the local seniors’ home where Auntie Peg was living out her final years. They alerted us that her mind had all but gone, but we nonetheless wanted to visit her while we had the chance.
My toddler is the star of my Nonna’s retirement home
We pulled up to a modern building with tidy grounds. We went in and found her in the simplest of rooms. She had lost most of her stoutness, but her cheeks still had a hint of their traditional rouge, her eyes still had their penetrating friendliness and although she rambled on enthusiastically in our presence, there was no coherence to anything she said. There was, though, that old familiar chortle. She was still Auntie Peg.
I looked around the room. The walls were a thick beige and utterly without character. A bed, a chair, a dresser, a wardrobe, not much more. Certainly, nothing that spoke of her 80-plus years, of where she had come from, what she had done in her life, who she had known and who she had loved. All keepsakes, the material record of her life seemed to have been gradually discarded on her journey toward this tiny, final room.
Except for one item: there on the wall above her bed was my Blue Boy. I was stunned at the sight of it; of all her life’s possessions, it was the last thing Auntie Peg had kept. It showed me that even the smallest gift can be valuable to another person. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten.
Murray Angus lives in Ottawa.