From the Smoky Lake Signal, January 12, 1983. By Lorne Taylor, in the editorial section.

Ukrainian Christmas 

One of the nicest things about living in Smoky Lake is having two Christmases and two New Years celebrations per year. This year besides the Dec. 25 celebrations with relatives in Calgary we had the honour of celebrating Ukrainian Christmas dinner with the Michalewichs of Smoky Lake.

Frank, a retired railroad section man, lives with his wife Stena and his daughter, Marcie, who is the Signal's loyal typesetter and corrector of my awful spelling.

Part of the joy of Ukrainian Christmas was the traditional food. The Kutya, a mixture of wheat, honey and poppy seeds is delicious. I could eat it every day. Then came Holupchi and pyrohy, mushrooms and my favorite the broad beans. I'll have to plant a few rows of them this spring. The head cheese or pickled pigs feet I must admit to sliding to the side of my heaping plate. After a cautious nibble, I ignored it for the rest of the meal. Actually it isn't bad, much better than I thought, considering I've spent years avoiding it, yet wondering what it's like. My curiosity was perked by them because there obviously must be something wrong with pickled pigs feet if they can't call it by what they are, pickled pigs feet. Why call it head cheese? That's the English name. It can actually be best described as jelly with meat in it. That sounds better than either of the other names.

Sharing Christmas also meant sharing memories with the Michalewichs. Frank remembered the years of work for CN in the coldest weather. The two steel rails don't just sit there straight and level year after year. They take constant mending and repairing. Old ties rot and have to be replaced. Soft sections of rail bed have to have the rails lifted and shims up to 2 inches thick slipped in to level them off. Then there's the wreck of 1971. A heavily loaded gravel filled train pounded a wet soft spot between Smoky Lake and Warspite until something snapped. The iron wheels jumped the track and ripped up a hundred ties like they were match sticks. Overturning, some of the cars landed in the ditch while others sunk their axles out of sight in the rails bed. It took a week of working night and day to get the line back operating again. Memories of 29 years on the job.

Tucked away in trucks and the bottoms of closets out came the handiwork from the old country, that was passed down from mother to daughter. Heavy woven bench covers and wall hangings. Necklaces, some of beads, the most fascinating for me, of coins. Some dated 1885, some 1795. Coins from the days of Napoleon, engraved with latin (I think) and heads of long dead kings and queens. Each is neatly drilled and tied with a bit of cord to make part of the necklaces that still look shiny and new.

Then came the singers who knocked and politely asked if the ladies of the Bellis Ukrainian Greek orthodox church could come and carol. They were making the rounds to sign Ukrainian and English Christmas songs and at the same time earn a donation or two fort eh maintained of their church. What a good way to spread the Christmas joy as well as collect donations.

The only hard part about celebrating Ukrainian Christmas is fitting it in so close after the Dec. 25th version. Belt buckles are already bulging.