However you picture Christmas, as the one coming up fast and how you dream (or hope) it might be, or the one of so many pasts; they are yours and yours alone.  The one you're anticipating might include loved ones coming home to visit, neighbours dropping by not by sleigh, but with the same Currier and Ives warmth, or memories of those you wish were still walking through the door.  You might be the one who goes about your preparations humming "I'll be home for Christmas...... if only in my dreams."

One year many Christmases ago, and after my beloved radio industry had gone boringly corporate, I was running a small little arts cafe in the "Big Smoke."  I had yet to learn that to make a go of it, "cheap and cheerful" with quality comfort food, craft beer and catering to the financially-sqeezed arts community, one needed volume.  Spell that big space, not 26 licensed seats.  O.K., we squeezed in 36.  But tiny place means you need to be expensive to pay your bills, like an exclusive bistro.  We DID pay them, plus the staff received above average wages apart from their (tax-free) tips, but there was no money left over to pay the owner..... me, who worked the longest hours.  

Yet I worried about those with no families or partners to be with on Christmas Day; no gifts to exchange, no sumptuous, traditional feasts to share.  Yes, there were downtown missions and the Sally Ann for some of their residents and street people.  But what about the truly homeless, mistrusting of anything institutional?  And those "single again" (or continuously); those going to school, the working poor, too far (or broke) to make it home?

I thought it would simply be a good thing to do, offering a free traditional Christmas turkey dinner with no strings (pardon the pun) to any and all, including those we probably would never see again.  I ran the idea past my partner, who was very unhappy about my being away for part of the "big day."  I decided to do it anyway; I HAD to do it.  My circuitous life meant I  knew what it was like to be comfortable, but I also had experienced being broke, having no family close by and at one point, being truly hungry.  One never forgets that.

I put a notice up in my little hole-in-the-wall cafe, asking those who could help prepare, serve, and even cook turkeys (we had no ovens).  Word got out well beyond our neighbourhood.  Someone called me from very upscale Moore Park (known more as the refuge of lawyers plus downtown movers and shakers) where, which prestigious renovation company sign on a front lawn was more important than the neighbour's.  The resident (surprisingly) would happily provide cooked turkeys.  We were on.

People offered veggies, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce; we would contribute soups, several desserts, juices, milk, tea and coffee.  A few cheery souls promised to help serve (not my own family or inlaws, which was fine..... just wasn't their thing).  We all have our priorities, especially on an important holiday.  One young woman called, offering to bring some food and asked, as a single mom, if she could include her toddler.  When she showed up, I realized she was one of our thoughtful regulars, a York University graduate student.  Who would have known?  And she just didn't want to drop in to eat, she wished to contribute something.  I was quite moved.

When we opened the door, we welcomed people we had never seen before, and knew we'd probably never see again.  That wasn't the point; we weren't doing it to attract new business, just to give back a wee bit.  It was heartwarming  serving these souls while working with volunteers, plus speaking with folks if they cared to chat while filling their tummies.  There was a steady flow but we were never jammed; then as it trickled down by mid-afternoon, I let the volunteers go one-by-one, until I was the last person handling the buffet set up on our counter.  Finally, one person was there, hesitantly asking if there was any cost.  I responded "No.  It's free.  Please, help yourself."

I noticed that this gentleman wore what appeared to be second-hand but clean clothes including a well-worn navy pea coat; he sat alone by our large front window as he began his meal.  He spoke very, very slowly.  "This - is - so - good!"  I was taken aback.  He obviously had difficulty forming his words, carefully planning what he was going to say.  I didn't want to intrude into his space, his thoughts, so I simply replied "Thank you.  I'm glad you're enjoying it."

After taking his time, he finally finished.  Again he said "This - is - so - good.  May - I - have - a - little - more?"  I responded "Absolutely.  We have plenty, and you're probably the last one."  He came back to put a little more on his plate, then carefully ate that.  As he got up to bring his (scrupulously) empty plate back and started to thank me, I said: "We still have more food and I think no more are coming, so we'll close.  Would you like me to put some into take out containers for you to take with you?"  He responded: "That - would - be - so - kind.  I - could - really - use - it - later, - or - tomorrow."  

He stood quietly as I filled several take out containers to the brim, I felt a lump in my throat.  I then bagged them for him to easily carry, and he slowly thanked me once again.  "Thank - you; - that - was - so - good.  Merry - Christmas, - Sir."  I said goodbye to him, shook his free hand at the door, and locked it after he left.  I watched as he made his way down the street until he finally disappeared.  I went to the counter to get all the remaining food ready for a city counsellor, who was coming by to take it to a shelter.

But before I could start my packaging, I went to the back as the floodgates opened and quietly cried.  I wasn't happy nor sad.  I just wondered who that soul was I'd never see again; what was his story, what had he been through, why was he probably alone, what was his life like, where would he go?  

Indeed, I was right, he never returned. But as the years spilled into decades, I always wondered, never forgot, that solitary man.  And to this day, I cannot tell that little (Dickensian) story or even think about it, without my eyes filling, the lump in my throat returning.  May God please bless him, wherever.  And you too, everyone, this Christmas.

Hosting a high-profile talk, interview and music show during afternoon prime time has its pressures and rewards, including in Canada's largest city, Toronto.  One day I received a lovely letter from the wife of a noted portrait photographer, Cavoukian, relating my work to that of her husband's.  While he spent hours developing film in his darkroom (remember those. before the digital age?), my program's content kept him company.  Both were to tell me that though we had never met, I was like "family."
He was the son of famous Cavouk (Armenian, like Karsh) who had migrated to Canada with his family.  His father had literally invented studio colour portraiture, with the backing of Agfa in Belgium.  Colour outdoor pictures were common at the time, but indoor photography had to be coloured by hand (remember the foreign postcards that were unusually tinted?).  

While Karsh claimed Ottawa, Cavouk set up shop in Toronto with his studio and large-windowed gallery in the landmark Colonnade on fashionable Bloor Street.   Many times I had nearly pressed my nose against the huge glass display windows, to look at portraits of the Royal Family, Prime Ministers, corporate titans and the occasional celebrity.  What fascinated me too, was  the texture of the portraits, looking like oil paintings.  This was because Cavouk was probably one of the first to employ the technique of using canvas on stretcher, to mount his colour film.  It was truly amazing to behold the depth, vibrancy and texture.

So I was honoured to have a letter and exhibition opening invite in hand, to finally meet the inventive Cavouk and Cavoukian (in Armenian, "ian" added to the family name meant "son of").  Onnig Cavoukian and I became good friends.  You should know that these Cavouks are highly-driven: sister Anne Cavoukian was Ontario's Privacy Commissioner, and brother Raffi is the world-reknown children's singer.

My father (a straight classical music lover) was visiting and both of us were invited to dinner at Cavoukian's.  During the meal, upon learning that my (now retired) dad was returning home the next day, not far from where one of Onnig's clients was living.  He asked my father if it would be an inconvenience to deliver a finished portrait of a client, rolled up on canvas ready for the stretcher and framing.  Dad was happy to oblige.

He left for his nine-hour drive with the scrolled canvas portrait on the back seat of the car.  After arriving home, he called the client to ascertain directions to his (rented) home and a mutually convenient time to make the delivery.  

The agreed day arrived, and Dad drove the 45-minute distance to this chap's temporary digs.  It was a spacious house directly on Long Island Sound.  My father rang the bell, and was greeted by a round-faced, middle-aged man who ushered him into a study that had sheet music everywhere; on furniture and scattered on the carpet.  The polite man graciously thanked my dad for the delivery, and apologized to him for not being able to speak with him at length; he was finishing a musical for a New York theatre.  The two exchanged names back at the front door as they warmly shook hands, and Dad quickly left.

I was speaking to my father by telephone the next day, and asked how the portrait delivery went.  He said it was fine, and that the thoughtful recipient expressed his regret several times for not being a better host, but that he was pressed for time in meeting his work deadline.  He wondered out loud what kind of musician this person might be.

Then my dad asked me: "Who is Charles Aznavour?"  I responded, "Why?"  Father said that he was the man in the portrait, and the same man who briefly welcomed him into his home.  "Dad!  Aznavour is a legend; he could cause riots in France!  He's an iconic, beloved singer-songwriter, actor, dancer, activist and diplomat world-wide; has written tons of standards, including 'Yesterday, When I Was Young,' 'She' and 'Dance, In The Old-Fashioned Way' plus thousands of others.  He's collaborated with legendary entertainers from Edith Piaf to Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.  Jack Jones recorded an entire album of his work called 'Write Me A Love Song, Charlie'."

Dad just said "Oh."  Then added: "Who's Jack Jones?"  Aznavourian (also Armenian), would have loved it.