When Ken died in February 2021, we had an outpouring of messages from readers, with many telling us how much his columns meant to them. In light of that, we thought we would go back through our files and re-publish some of them. Ken would be flattered by the kind words readers expressed. We miss him as a friend and as a storyteller.

This happened three years ago and will always be one of my favourite memories. I was in Edmonton for medical reasons. Since I had to be there for several days, I decided to treat myself and stay at one of the upscale hotels. In the lobby was a giant and beautifully-decorated Christmas tree. At the far end of the lobby was a huge fireplace. During the evenings I would take a newspaper and sit by the fireplace. One evening, through the glass windows and doors, I saw two charter buses pull up. I thought it might be an entertainer or something and kept an eye on them. It took about half an hour before the door of one of the buses opened. First a woman came out and three men soon followed. The three men were dressed like the actors from the movie Men in Black. They all had black matching suits and, even though it was dark, they all wore black sunglasses. Whoever was in those buses stayed inside. They must be rock stars or something, I thought. I kept my eyes on the bus to see who would come out. The woman went to the front desk and spoke with the clerk. Within a few minutes, the manager of the hotel came out to speak with the woman.

 The three men stood at the door making sure nobody came in or out. “What’s going on here?” I said to myself. Being a journalist I pretended to be just sipping on my tea. Then the manager of the hotel used his keys and locked all three of the elevators. After that the woman went back out and into one, then the other bus. Soon after, about 100 people piled out of the buses and came into the hotel. The woman collected the group into a corner, and it was then that I realized it was probably one of the first groups of Syrian refugees to arrive in Canada. What amazed me were the looks of the children when they saw the giant Christmas tree. It was priceless. I wondered if they celebrated Christmas in their homeland.

 I was trying to catch the eyes of the adults, so maybe I could go and talk to them. But the three men made sure nobody approached the group. The groups were escorted into the three elevators. I was hoping this gave the families a good impression of Canada, and I wondered if the children would get Christmas presents. Of course, the real gift for the families was the freedom they were about to experience. The next morning I woke up early and went back to sit by the fireplace. The two buses were still outside and, once again, the manager of the hotel came and locked the elevators. About 10 minutes later the manager came back and unlocked the elevators and out of one of the elevators came the three men and the woman. They looked around the hotel lobby and right behind them were the Syrian refugees. This time, unlike the night before, I could hear the laughter of the children. The night before there was nothing but silence. The children all had wrapped presents. They ran towards the tree and started opening their gifts. The adults all had cellphones and were busy taking photographs as the children opened the presents. As every present was opened, the child would scream and run to his or her parents to give them a big hug. Every adult, including the woman and the three men was in tears. Even though the three men still had their sunglasses on, I could see they had to keep taking them off and wipe away the tears. I wondered where all the presents came from because it seemed every child in that room got exactly what they must have wished for.

I recalled the first Christmas I received a present. My family had just moved from a Northern trap line. I didn’t know what Christmas was but I heard a huge man dressed in red and white would go around giving all good boys and girls presents. My parents went into the bush and cut down a small tree and we all sat down and decorated the tree. When I went to sleep, I took one last look at the tree and didn’t see any presents. Being young, I thought maybe I wasn’t worthy and maybe I wasn’t such a good boy after all.

Christmas morning came and I could hear the radio in the background as the smell of bacon and eggs filled our tiny house. I really didn’t want to get up and see a tree with no presents. Then my mother called to tell me breakfast was ready. When I went to look at the tree, I saw a pile of beautifully wrapped presents. I saw one that said “boy, eight to 10 years old.” I knew it was mine. Of course, I didn’t know at the time the presents came from the local ladies’ hospital auxiliary. The present was more than just a present: it was a statement that I was a good boy after all. The present turned out to be a hockey helmet. I still couldn’t play hockey at the time, but I didn’t care. I knew I would teach myself. I kept that helmet on all day and, later on that night I even went to sleep with it on.

The next time you walk by one of those Santa’s anonymous boxes and think about buying a present for a complete stranger, do it. You never know: you could change a northern boys’ life or the life of a first time Canadian. Merry Christmas.

-Ken Noskye