THE STORY OF THE CHRISTMAS POTATO IN MY FAMILY

For a lot of people the world over, the common ordinary potato has special and differing meanings this time of year.

St. Mikulas Day in the Czech Republic, for instance, is when trios of people dressed as an angel, a devil, and St. Nicholas walk around handing out candy to children who sing a song or recite a poem. Later, when people have house parties, the devil covered in coal dust will show up in Santa’s place, thus terrifying little children. The children must sing a song for the devil to prove they’ve been good, otherwise they get a potato and the devil threatens to take them back to hell in his potato sack. Kind of a mean-spirited tradition, in my mind.

I’m not sure what potatoes have to do with sin, but no "normal" kid (me excluded) wants a potato for Christmas, all of which reminds me of a rather unique story just between me, my grandfather and my youngest daughter Cindy.

My grandfather Nelson Perry grew up in an impoverished large family in the 1860s. He was the youngest of eight siblings raised virtually singlehandedly by his widowed mother. He frequently enthralled me with stories of life on a humble Upper Canada homestead in rural Middlesex (near Ingersoll).

My childish heart would ache every time he repeated his "Christmas potato" story.

It seems that one Christmas when Nelson was only four or five years of age, his mother had no money to spend on gifts for her kids so she broke a stick of candy into eight pieces and placed each one into a stocking along with a potato, the only other edible she had left in the house.

The eight stocking-stuffer potatoes, of course, subsequently went into a pot of broth for that evening's Christmas dinner.

Hence, a tradition was born.

Thanks to the fun nature of my granddad and mother, every Christmas that I can remember I too received a potato, always in the toe of my stocking, hung by the fireplace with care. The only difference being that I would also receive an orange, along with a half dozen other play trinkets and, naturally, the customary candy cane. Family laughter and applause always ensued when the last thing I pulled out of my stocking was the anticipated potato, in all its glorious splendor.

Debbie and Cindy mailing their
letters to the North Pole.

It seemed fitting, that I would continue the potato tradition with my daughters when they came along. The oldest girl, Debbie, accepted it in good fun but it was a different story for my youngest Cindy who was not in the least impressed.

Justifiably convinced that she had been a good girl all year, she simply could not understand why she was getting a potato in her stocking and promptly cast it aside with disgust. The scowl on her three-year-old face and the assumed insult that went along with it, expressed it all. Tradition does not always compute in a small mind.

Needless to say, discretion dictated that we thereafter put an end to the Christmas potato tradition in the Wright household.

Funny, but I miss the old pock-marked spud in my stocking, even to this day! As I was setting up the stocking photo at the top of this post, I thought to myself, "Hey, that potato can be my gift to myself this year!" A meaningful symbol of Christmases past.

Then I'll have it for Christmas dinner...A gift that keeps giving!