When I was growing up on the Canadian Prairies, the Eaton’s Christmas catalogue was the most read publication in our house. That is saying a lot, because any printed material was highly valued. The Country Guide and The Western Producer were near the top of the list, but the Christmas Catalogue was in a league of its own.
It was our “Wish Book.” In the months leading up to December, I would study each page with great care, pondering every attractive item. I would ask myself, “Is this something Santa could afford?” I learned early on that he had a set budget, and there was no use being too extravagant.
Even at five years old, I knew it was best to select several options, hoping at least one of them would appear under the tree on Christmas morning. Mother and Dad would usually take my list under advisement and place the order a couple of weeks before the big day. I believe this involved filling out the order form, then making a special trip to the post office in town to purchase a money order for the total amount.
I vividly remember Christmas of 1955. We had only recently moved from Alberta to Manitoba. Money was tight, and though we were hopeful, we were also realistic. The week before Christmas, a severe snowstorm hit, blocking all the roads for miles around.
Christmas morning came, and there wasn’t a single parcel under the tree. There were some sad faces in our house that day.
Around noon, the snow plow finally went by our house, slowly clearing the mountains of white drifts. Shortly after, the telephone rang. A kind neighbour let my parents know that the postmaster was keeping the post office open until 5:00 PM for those who had parcels waiting. It was unheard of for the post office to be open on Christmas Day, but Dad jumped in the car and went straight to town.
There were no fancy wrappings that Christmas—just brown shipping paper—but we all crowded around with bated breath as the parcels were opened. I don’t remember what my sister got; she was just a baby at the time. But my brother and I got a sled to share between us.
It was nothing fancy, just a two-dollar hardwood sled, but we had to get bundled up and go out to try it immediately.
We had no hill to slide down—it was the prairies, after all—so we took turns pulling each other until we were played out and went in for supper. Because the sled was so low to the ground, with no raised runners like the more expensive models, it acted more like a snow plow than a sleigh, but we didn’t care. It was Christmas, and Santa hadn’t forgotten us after all.
(Note: $1 in 1955 had the buying power of over $11 today, so that $2 sled was a significant gift!)
That Christmas catalogue was kept around for a few months so we could peruse it from time to time and dream of the possibilities for next year. But that meant the summer catalogue—the big thick one—could finally be retired to the outhouse. There, it got gradually thinner and thinner, as it was much preferred to the Simpson-Sears catalogue (the paper was much softer).
Does anyone else have stories about the Eaton’s Christmas catalogue, or the “Outhouse Library”? Please share, we’d love to hear them.