A belated Happy Solstice! Oh, and it's Christmas today. Much of the world has Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Pere Noel, whatever. Not here in Canada. Here we have Snowy Pete, the Christmas Lumberjack, known in Quebec as Pierre de la Neige. With his trusty moose, Jacques (the same in both languages), and his albino beaver, Saskatchewan (whom the province was named after), Pierre spends the year cutting down trees in preparation for the big day, Christmas. He brings plenty of logs for good families to keep their homes warm until the spring thaw, and good children often get little hand-carved toys and ornaments.
Snowy Pete is usually described in lore as a big, brawny man so when the malls hire their Petes in the days leading up to Christmas, they often have their work cut out for them. Fortunately there are professionals who make a living playing the character, and sometimes real lumberjacks will chip in and help out when there is a Snowy Pete shortage.
One thing there isn't a shortage of is plaid, especially plaid flannel. You see it everywhere around Christmas in Canada. There is even an official Snowy Pete tartan that's used, but people like to throw in different patterns and colours just for variety.
Legend has it that Pierre was once a normal lumberjack toiling in the forests of Northern Canada (it's never been made clear if it's one of the territories or provinces, there is a lot of argument whether it was Manitoba, Quebec, or his current home, the Yukon). Normal except in that not only did he work harder than any other lumberjack, he had the kindest heart of them all. One year at Christmas, the worst blizzard in a century hit but Pierre refused to stop cutting down trees. The wood was needed to heat homes, hospitals, and orphanages he said. He kept cutting and cutting, working his way through the forest, and was about to finally stop for the night because he was getting way too chilled. At that moment he came upon a cabin deep in the woods, with no lights on in the window but obvious signs of habitation.
Knocking on the door, a young child answered. She was the eldest of seven, no older than 12 if a day. Her widowed mother was bedridden with pneumonia, and they were all huddled together trying to conserve body heat. Letting out a howl of outrage that such a family be left to such a fate, Pierre ran back outside and started cutting down tree after tree. Ice formed on his moustache as he laboured, frost formed on his beard. His toque became more encumbered by snow and the plaid of his flannel became unrecognizable under the increasing whiteness of wintery deluge.
Laying down his axe and carrying hundreds of logs in his mighty arms, Pierre went back to the cabin and started a fire in the fireplace and another in the stove, then he collapsed. The exhaustion and hypothermia were too much. Such a sacrifice! Too much of a sacrifice to let it end like that, with Pierre dying by the fire. The Spirits of the North gathered around Pierre, and he started to glow a warm, comfortable glow. His pitch black hair and whiskers turned a sparkling snowy white. His toque turned luminescent and his flannel clothes softer but more durable. In his hands a new axe began to form, the handle out of flawless pine and the head out of ice, but hard as steel and warm as Pete himself.
Getting up from the floor, Snowy Pete went over to the bedridden widowed mother and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Just like that, her pneumonia was gone. Silently he went over to the door, but before leaving he turned around and looked at the family. "Merry Christmas," he said, "take care of each other, bring happiness to all you encounter and peace to the world."
As he stepped out the door, a moose and an albino beaver came to meet him. Lifting the beaver up on the back of the moose, Pete turned to the house one more time, gave a wave and a wink, and vanished into the snow.
And so it is that to this day Canadian children everywhere look forward to Snowy Pete coming by and leaving firewood for their homes, and try to be good all year so they can get a little hand-carved wooden toy.
Now I must go, so I leave this tale with a hearty "Joyeux Plaisanter" and a bit of a wink of my own...
posted
by Tabby at 12/25/2004 05:15:00 p.m.
