For me, the 1990s are notable for the preparatory chess-like approach that a teenage Megan Jessica Tomlin put into preparing for what was, for her, a signal event in her life: the post-Christmas Boxing Day extravaganza where a hard earned dollar might best be put to salutary advantage, one dollar equalling as many as ten, and the acquisition of notable high fashion a necessary goal for a young woman who wished to be seen as presenting herself well to the world, not just as a Marxist feminist presence and young woman of substance, but as a woman of fashion meant to turn heads.
Yes, dear and constant reader, Boxing Days throughout the 1990s were a delight of immense proportion not just for this callow writer, but for the aforementioned Ms. Tomlin, whose Boxing Days unfolded as follows …

Each Boxing Day at 4 a.m. Megan and I would leave home, to attend at a Denny’s Restaurant, where we might enjoy a breakfast repast, as Megan informed this writer of her plans for the morning, through until noon day. With the required information in hand (and committed to memory), Megan and yours truly set about to acquire garments & clothing of not simply the most sophisticated fashion, but of the most careful design & construction.
Having enjoyed our breakfast at the Denny’s Restaurant, nearest to the retail establishment first on Megan’s list, within which retailer’s premises was contained a particular good, the first good of the day Megan felt must henceforth become a part of her wardrobe, the two of us — father led by daughter — would proceed to the store chosen as the first stop of the day for my acquisition-inclined teenage daughter, waiting patiently in line while the (most often young, and surprisingly, too, often quite churlish) retail staff prepared to throw open their doors to the maddening crowd of eager, mostly young shoppers — accompanied most often by their weary mothers.
At precisely 6 a.m.

At which point, those Doc Martens Megan had her eye on would, as she jostled through the store, making a bee line for the shoes of her choice, and then to the cashier to check out, in order that we might proceed to the “next” retail establishment on Megan’s well-crafted list of winter fashions.
Perhaps now would be the appropriate time to provide a bit of background.

Each Boxing Day, for some weeks leading up to that auspicious day on the retail calendar, Megan would set about to ensure that on Christmas Day a sum of monies totalling exactly $1,000 in cash would find itself into her most deserving possession. Megan’s indulgent grandmother, aunt, uncle, mother, mother’s partner, father, mother’s best friend, cousins, her boyfriend, and her mother’s partner’s children would present different denominations of bills, whether they be tens, twenties or fifties, the sum then of $1,000 in cash in Megan’s hands by late on Christmas Day evening.
To know Megan is to know that Megan is not to be refused.
Of course, one wishes to please Megan, as well — that is a prime directive.

For this writer, to be in the presence of this young, focused, giddily happy young woman for a period of eight consecutive glee-filled and joyous hours, where Megan was kind and thoughtful, generous in her thoughts, focused and political our conversation on how one might best going about changing the world, to share this young woman’s sense of joy and appreciation was, for this writer, throughout the entirety of the 1990s, a most looked forward to event & stretch of hours each year, on the post-Christmas Day calendar.

The final location at which to attend was, for Megan, almost a second home through most of the 1990s, and the single store Megan and I most often visited during the course of the decade was the Aritzia store, in the Oakridge mall. I don’t think there was a time when we were together when Megan and I did not travel to the Oakridge Aritzia store, if only to browse.
Those times are now part of Megan’s and my past, fondly remembered by me as Megan’s last breath of innocence, a time before almost a dozen years at university — or just at the start — a time before a marriage that would take place years later, in her late twenties, before her children were born, and before Megan began inexorably to feel the weight of the world, and the myriad responsibilities of adulthood, on her capable shoulders.

Christmas 1994 is one of my favourite Christmases ever. Not because it was an especially happy one, but because it’s become a memorable one.
From the late 1980s through the mid-1990s, one of my employments was as a restaurant critic, publishing in various community newspapers and magazines across the Metro Vancouver region. In 1994, one of my editors suggested I write a column on the best shepherd’s pie in town, which allowed me to travel to the Expo Saskatchewan Pavilion restaurant in West Vancouver, as well as a number of other establishments across the Lower Mainland, including a restaurant in my Kitsilano neighbourhood, which served a warming and delicious shepherd’s pie dinner for only $4.95 — at the time, this was the best deal in town for shepherd’s pie.
This was a deli-style restaurant. Martha, the young woman behind the counter, was a UBC student, I was to learn, in her final year at the University of British Columbia who, as she took my order, and then delivered my shepherd’s pie dinner, proceeded to flirt with me like mad. Long story short, I asked her out, we began dating, and all seemed right with the world. This was the early autumn of 1994. I learned that she grew up in Nova Scotia, but had decided to attend UBC, as she had often travelled to British Columbia with her parents when she was growing up.
As Christmas approached, we made arrangements to spend Christmas Day together. I would make Christmas dinner, while she would supply the baking. On Christmas Eve, I picked her up from work and drove towards her home on East 18th Avenue and Ontario Street, just off Main Street.
As I was driving, I mentioned to her that my friends Michael Klassen and Stacey Fruin were having a Christmas Eve party at their home on Columbia Street near 18th, just a few short blocks from her home, and asked Martha if we might make an appearance at Michael and Stacey’s home to wish them a happy Christmas. “I’d rather not,” Martha said, although we did end up attending the party, if only briefly.
We stayed only 15 minutes at Michael and Stacey’s, Martha was social and seemed to enjoy herself, but remembering her “I’d rather not” and the agreement we made that we’d attend the party for only a few minutes, after 15 minutes we wished Michael and Stacey a merry Christmas, and we were off. As we were walking towards the car, Martha turned to me to say that she needed some fresh air, and would walk the three blocks to her home, stating, “I’d better get started on the baking when I get home, as well.” As we parted, I told her I’d call her at 8 a.m. Christmas Day.
We hugged and kissed good-bye, I made sure that she was safe walking down East 18th Avenue, and headed back home to my Kitsilano neighbourhood, snuggling up in bed with a good book, and a cup of herbal tea on the night stand to sip on. By midnight, I was fast asleep.

At 6 a.m. the phone rang; it was Martha, who told me the following …

“I’m in Hope. I’ve decided to spend Christmas Day with my university friend who lives in Penticton. My bus is about to leave. I’ve got to go.”

At this point, as I was rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I was now fitfully awake, and a little awestruck at this unexpected turn of events.
Several months in, the relationship with Martha was a romantic and loving one. Although she maintained her shared residence in Mount Pleasant, more often than not she slept at my place, just a couple of blocks down the street from where she worked, and relatively close to UBC.
At 6:30 a.m. my children called to wish me a merry Christmas, and told me how much they were looking forward to seeing me on Boxing Day.
At 7 a.m. I got up, showered and made myself some breakfast, taking a few more calls from friends wishing me a merry Christmas, after which I went for a walk throughout and across my Kitsilano neighbourhood.
This was a bitterly and bitingly cold Christmas Day, with a smattering of snow on the ground, but mostly a great deal of frost. The skies were azure blue and clear with nary a cloud to be found, the sun was out, the streets deserted. The headphones over my ears effectively acted as earmuffs, as I listened to some of my favourite music on my bulky Sony Walkman.

When I arrived back home, I began making preparations for dinner, and at 1 p.m. decided that I wanted to make my way down to Locarno Beach, along Spanish Banks, and then head out for a drive around the west side of my most beloved city. At the beach, the grass and then the sand was crunchy beneath my feet, my gloves serving to keep my hands warm, my scarf keeping my face safe from the biting cold off the waters of the Inlet.

Later, when I returned to the deli, I learned two things: 1) Martha had quit her job, and 2) the review I’d written had driven a sizable number of new customers to restaurant, causing the owners to more than double its price for the shepherd’s pie, undoing whatever good had come their way by charging a lower amount for the dinner, that had once given good value.
I never saw Martha again.
And, from that Christmas Day in 1994, outside of an occasional teary session inside a darkened cinema during an especially moving scene, I’ve not cried since. My heart is stronger. I have remained open to love, and love with all my heart, but become more protective of my own heart, more aware of the actual, rather than imagined or romantic, tenor of my various relationships, not just with women, but with all those who are in my life.