Robert's Hill (or the Time I Pooped My Snowsuit) and Other Christmas Stories by Jeremy John

Author:Jeremy John [John, Jeremy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Holidays
ISBN: 9781459749405
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2021-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

Christmastime in the Neighbourhood

IT STARTED LIKE most every other night. My dad was working. He drove a taxi in the city, which meant that when he wasn’t driving, he wasn’t getting paid. So, with three kids at home, he was driving almost all the time. On this night he was driving a limo. He’d take a few extra shifts with the limo company whenever the family needed extra money, which was almost all the time. He’d finish his nine-hour day behind the wheel of his black and yellow, then home for dinner, then right back behind the wheel — this time a shiny stretch job with tinted windows and a bar in the back. I’m sure every guy at the company bugged the dispatcher for some extra hours, but the guy who picked the drivers liked my dad. It’s probably because of all those bonus hours that Christmas was always a big deal in our house.

I know now that Mom and Dad struggled to get by. I didn’t know it at the time. But it only makes sense now. Dad was a new immigrant; moved here and started working, then a year later he sent a letter to Italy asking a girl from the village to move to America and marry him. She did, they had three kids, and he spent his whole life driving that cab. Mom never worked — it simply wasn’t done back then. Nice Italian girls stayed home, had babies, and took care of the house. Nice Italian boys went to work. Dad never even took a vacation. Just worked until he was too sick to work anymore. Then he was gone. To him, that was life. Work every day until there are no more days left.

They were not much different than any other family in our neighbourhood. Every day was a struggle, and just making it to payday was a success. But at Christmas, they always went all out. A big dinner — it was the only time of the year my mom would cook rabbit. Dad would make a big deal every winter when he brought it home from the butcher. He would make my big brother carry it in the door, and when the kids gathered around to watch him unwrap the waxy paper, he’d pick up the head to make the rabbit look around the room. Dad would always pretend the rabbit was talking. Saying something like, “Who’s hungry?” Or the rabbit would lean over and whisper, “Your papa asked me to come to dinner. He said Mama was making coniglio bianco. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds delicious!” Dad would have all three kids squealing with laughter until Mom took the rabbit away from Dad and put it in the roasting pan.

I think about cooking rabbit every now and then, but I can never recall how it tastes. I can remember its voice and the smile on Dad’s face as he sat behind it, acting like it was a puppet.

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