Illustration by Erick M. Ramos
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When Advent arrived last season, so did a conundrum. I wanted to make a fun December countdown for my four grandchildren, creating two refillable calendars, one for each family. I got out my sewing box and machine-quilted three layers of fabric, ironed box pleats to create 24 pockets. Then I had to fill them, but with what? A generous stash of Halloween treats was still lingering in their cupboards and no one needed more sugar. My quest began.
It seemed I was not the only one looking for an alternative. Cadbury and Lindt continue to hide confections behind cardboard windows depicting winter scenes, but there’s a lot of competition these days. Lego and liquor have entered the Advent ring. If toys and booze aren’t enough, I also found one that helps you build an FM radio by assembling the electronic components that are revealed as you count down the days to Christmas. But these wouldn’t work; I needed an option that didn’t include plastic, photo ID or a degree in physics.
All of this is a far cry from the paper Advent calendars of my childhood; modest sketches of the Nativity and holiday symbols were hidden behind perforated cardboard doors. Back then, my mother strengthened the hinges with Scotch tape; this enabled us to reuse the calendar until the amber-aged adhesive refused to oblige. She was a woman ahead of her time.
I considered creating a story of adventures we’d all shared the previous year. Twenty-four paragraphs folded up and tucked in each pocket. But with too many forest walks and COVID-19 tests looped on repeat, it would be a challenge to keep my young readers engaged. Besides, the speed at which I set down words on paper is slow – and the deadline of Dec. 1 is unyielding.
I went online for inspiration. The list of suggestions was impressive. Ideas ranged from cozy to crafty to community-minded; drink cocoa by candlelight, make paper-chain penguins, take waterproof gloves to a shelter. Fun and worthwhile thoughts. All of them. But I would be giving this calendar to my energetic grandchildren and their exhausted parents in a porch drop-off; it would be an offloading of sorts. “Here, parents, make all of this happen while I head home to watch BritBox.” So I kept looking.
The answer to this puzzle was, well, a puzzle. I entered a toy store and the young woman hired to greet shoppers listened to my dilemma and my criteria: modest, practical, festive. She reached on the shelf behind her for a box and placed it in my hand. A 56-piece kit to build a 3-D tree ornament. The recommended age for the product was 6-99; not ideal for its young recipients but done, as they say, is better than perfect. Sold. Two of them.
The pieces were numbered. With the help of bifocals and basic math, I distributed the 56 pieces among the 24 pockets of each cloth calendar, lay them flat in the trunk of my car and delivered them. One to my son’s kids, and then on to my daughter’s.
When I opened my car trunk the following day, I found piece #27; a tiny tip from a fir tree. Fortunately, I had bought different coloured puzzle ornaments; one red, the other green. This clue established that the calendar at my daughter’s house was a player down and that the time I’d spent watching detectives on TV was not in vain.
Luckily, it was my day to help her with after-school pickup; my husband dropped me off at their house early so I could go in and return this straggler between #26 and #28. Easy peasy. I wiggled my finger into the pocket and found – nothing. More had gone AWOL. Darn. It had been 21 hours since I parked the car for this drop-off. Like a K-9 tracker, I retraced my steps. I found cigarette butts, hamburger wrappers, coffee cups and the fugitive pieces. I raced back inside the house and checked all the pockets to discover there’d been an insurrection of sorts. Now #31 was MIA. After another expletive, I rushed off to stand outside the school and wait.
“Persistence,” I said to the four-year-old as I explained we had to go on a puzzle-piece hunt. “This is called persistence.” We were sitting on his front steps as he nibbled on lunch box leftovers. “Is 31 one-three, or three-one?” he asked. “Three one. You can help me look.”
For those who know Bible parables, there was a woman who shared my predicament; she had a light, a broom, and upon finding her lost coin, told everyone within earshot. I get it now and felt the same elation, the same relief when we, too, succeeded in finding piece #31. She shouted, “Rejoice.” Me? “Booyah!”
It’s clear that my plan was flawed. Small parts, delicate assembly, hectic mornings. Yet to everyone’s surprise, the construction of the ornaments was achieved in both homes. I collected the calendars on Boxing Day, which gave me 340 days to plan the next calendar.
Every year these grandchildren will grow and what is appropriate will change. I will do my best to stay away from sugar and the accumulation of, well, stuff. This year it’s scavenger hunt-meets-jigsaw. I’ve found a fun winter event we can attend together so I’ll print a drawing with the details, cut the paper into 24 pieces and tuck each into a pocket of the calendar. This mystery comes with a numbered sheet and glue stick. Each day, more and more will be revealed.
Maybe the value will be found in the ritual, not in the pockets, and confirm for our family what a colleague once explained to me: “A tradition is something we did once that everybody liked.” From his lips to Santa’s ears.
Marg Heidebrecht lives in Dundas, Ont.