The Capitol's Last Christmas

Then he let go of my hand and went ahead a bit on the snowy sidewalk and, wiggling his bum under his overcoat, he imitated the bear. "The simple bare necessities," he sang, keeping time with his overcoat.

The Château Laurier was glittering in red and silver and green Christmas lights, and the handsome doorman in his grey uniform with the red trim was hanging a big round wreath with bells on it on the main door. And there was the lovely sad sound of Christmas carols being sung from inside the lobby.

Outside, we were singing a different song: "The bare necessities of life..."

[The mom reading this out loud should try to sing this part of the song if she knows it.]

My dad never talked baby talk or childish talk to me. He used big words often and then later, maybe a month later or even maybe a year later, I'd hear the word again and then I'd know what it meant.

That night, walking down Rideau Street on our way home from the show, he used the word exotic.

We were looking in A.J. Freiman's department store windows at the beautiful sweaters and hats and coats on the mannequins and all the Christmas decorations and the glistening star dust and silver icicles, and I especially liked the way one mannequin's boots didn't even touch the fake snow and how cold her plastic legs looked between her fur coat and her socks as she floated over the snow. Her plastic hand stretched out with no glove on and she was holding the missing glove in her other gloved hand.

She was either going to shake hands with somebody or take off and fly away.

And I thought that when I grew up and became a beautiful woman, I would have a fur hat and fur gloves and a fur coat and a silk scarf and fur-lined boots just like her.
But I knew, though, that when I grew up to be that, my feet would be touching the ground.

"It's a shame," my dad was saying, "that they're going to tear down the Capitol Theatre. We'll never see an exotic building like that again in this city."

Then he used another word that was new to me. I can't call it a big word because it's so small. He used the word era.

"It's the end of an era," he said. "Tomorrow they'll kill all the lights, put up the word "Closed" on the marquee and board up the windows. Then, after Christmas, the bulldozers will come."

Down Rideau Street, then Dalhousie Street, mitt in glove, we went, past the glittering stores, past the jingling sidewalk Santas, past Mello's restaurant, where they were having a big party, past the late shoppers with their arms full of parcels, past a man selling turkeys out of a truck, turned on Murray Street, crossed at Cumberland and we were home.

Through the front window we could see part of our Christmas tree, which was up but not decorated yet, and we could see Mom in the window looking out for us, and when she saw us on the step she disappeared and opened the door for us.

Something was wrong.

"Grampa's missing," she said. "He went out for a walk just after you left and he hasn't come back yet."

We went in the house and tried to decide what to do. Dad said he'd go out and look for him. Mom was going to start phoning the neighbours. Dad was talking about calling the police when the doorbell rang.

Then the door opened and in walked Grampa and behind him a man in raggedy clothes. "Where have you been, Poppa?" Grampa said to Dad. "I've been looking high and low fer you! I was worried sick!"

[The mom reading this part could try all the different voices: Grampa's voice is big and deep. Dad's voice is normal, and so is Mom's. The man's voice is high and thin like a goat's.]

"I met this man at the Union Station. He looked lost." The stranger was explaining to us what had happened. "He looked lost. I was in the station there to get warm. I asked him where he was going. He said he was taking a train out West. I asked him where he lived. He showed me his wallet. The address. I brought him here. Is there a reward?"

The man's coat was looped and raggedy around him. His hat was a summer hat, a cap, not a winter hat. His hands were bare and raw. His lips were cracked and his cheekbones had blue veins.

"Please come in," Dad said. "Come in and sit down. We'll have some hot cocoa."

This part is hard to explain.

You see, Grampa thought our place was a travelling salesman's rooming house or, as he called it, a "stopover." Grampa was a farm-machinery salesman when he was an ordinary man and travelled many places selling binders and mowers and harrows and hay rakes and bailers and tractors.