The Christmas countdown is on! And the excitement in all those small country towns around the world is building as rural meets urban in the holiday preparations. Here’s what Christmas was like in a snowy, small country Canadian town 80 years ago, as remembered by my father, Clare Westcott.

Picture this: I was seven years old. It was 1931.

Neither the video camera nor the tape recorder had been invented. Sure, we had a Brownie or the odd Kodak, but not for taking pictures at night. So the only real record of Main Street on the Saturday night before Christmas 80 years ago are the pictures tucked away in the minds of those of us still around who were lucky enough to have been there.

The treasure of remembering the sights and sounds of the cutters and sleighs on the snow-covered street and the cheery jingle of harness bells is very precious. Imagine teams of snorting heavy horses, blowing their steam-like breath into the freezing air. Some heading home after a day in town, heavy with bags of freshly chopped grain from Bob Aberhart’s mill. Shopping done, last minute presents bought, and bodies all wrapped up cozily for the bitterly cold ride home. The inner warmth of a bit of Christmas cheer and the rattling harness and jingling bells lulled some into a quiet doze. But it didn`t really matter. The horses knew exactly where the farm was.

From where I stood in the doorway of my Dad`s jewellery store, I could just peer over the top of the piled up snow. The tiny Salvation Army group led by Captain John Dougall, with an alto horn, a bass drum and a tambourine, played Christmas carols in front of Charlie Aberhart’s drug store.

On the corner, just over John Street was Tom Dickson`s Purina feed store - a gathering place for farmers while the ladies made the rounds of the stores. Most fascinating for me were the two big salmon hanging in front of Nellie Pryce`s grocery store. They were frozen stiff. One looked as if it would come up to my shoulder. Its head was still on and its mouth was wide open.

Two stores up was Beattie`s butcher shop, crowded with town folk buying their freshly killed Christmas turkey or chicken. Mr. Beattie would sometimes give me suet to hang in our back yard for the birds. But the place for special Christmas treats was the Phillips’ fruit store, across from the Commercial hotel. Oranges and bananas, nuts and hard candy were the prized stocking stuffers of the day. For many of us, it was a once-a-year treat.

Most crowded were the grocery stores up and down Main Street where both farmers and town folk were stocking up on holiday food. In every shop, the smells of Christmas hung sweet in the air.

My favourite place was the Cheiros family restaurant. Marble everywhere, especially the long soda fountain and ice cream parlour chairs that marked the age. Chris Cheiros was as much an artist as he was a candy maker. He created a feast for the eyes and the palate at Christmas, with his skill at making chocolate Santas, ornaments and candy canes. His nativity scene made entirely of chocolate and brightly coloured candy drew crowds of salivating kids - including me. As we pressed our faces to the cold window, the luscious aroma of chocolate seemed to leap out into the icy air each time the door opened.

I remember the many winter sounds, made sharp and clear by the icy, bitter cold. "Jingle Bells" is still one of our favourite holiday songs but the real jingle is gone. As the horses left, so did the bells - now hanging somewhere with the harness, dusty museum pieces discarded and silent. Also long gone are the town`s two blacksmith shops, open Saturday night in case a horse threw a shoe. And where I watched Orval Shoefelt send sparks in the air as he hammered away at a horseshoe on the big black iron anvil.

Somehow the sound of church bells seemed to bounce and echo more through the town over Christmas. High up on each side of Main Street, Cardno`s clock and the Post Office clock rang the hour and the half-hour. I know, for I felt the proud thrill of climbing to the clock towers of both when my Dad wound them each Sunday afternoon. It was a labour of love for the town`s watchmaker. I remember it was like cranking a car. Dad wound both each week and the town paid him the princely sum of $25 a year.

There were other familiar sounds. Like the town constable, big Jim Ryan tolling the town hall bell at 12 noon and 1 o'clock to mark the lunch hour - and again at 6 to announce it was time for supper.

And every day but Sunday, four giant steam engines came through town, bringing people home for the holiday and announcing their arrival and departure with loud blasts of the steam whistle. Not to be outdone, the shrill sound of the Robert Bell Engine & Thresher Company whistle that blasted four times each and every work day. So many of those lovely old sounds are gone. Sounds that orchestrated a kind of musical backdrop to the festive warmth and spirit of our small-town Christmas - a distant 80 years ago.

At Cardno`s Hall, the last big musical event of the year was always the Public School Christmas concert. I like to think at least a few turned out to hear Albert Venus and I sing our well-rehearsed duet, "The Twelve Days of Christmas". I sensed we were more loud than sweet but the choreography and coaching from the producer of the show – our grade 7 teacher, the amazing and wonderful Mabel Turnbull - turned us into stars and brought on great applause - at least from proud parents.

We were so very lucky. Too young to know we were living in hard times. We knew Santa would seek us out wherever we were on Christmas Eve and there would be something under the tree with our name on it. We just knew it.

Our tiny frame house was on the edge of town across from the High School. I was five before we had electric lights or a telephone. I was seven before we had running water. We never did have a furnace and our toilet was a fifty-foot walk from our back door. I recall these things as if it was yesterday but I don`t remember ever thinking of them as hardships. My fondest memories are there.

I have carried an amazingly clear picture in my mind of that Christmas morning so long ago. That its clarity has not dimmed could suggest it is an icon in my mind marking that memorable age. An age of civility and simple grace that will never be again.  My own measure of the greatness and the innocence of so long ago.

So well I remember. It is about 6 am. My four-year old sister and I are quietly tiptoeing down the stairs from our bedroom. The narrow stairs turn at the bottom and opens on to what we then called "the front room".

We sit in the dark at the bottom - behind the closed door. Our parents are still asleep. We know we are about to take part in something wonderful and exciting. We haven't the slightest idea what adrenaline is, but it quivers our bodies and speeds up our pulses and heartbeats.

I slowly lift the latch and open the door just enough for us both to peek through and see the Christmas tree. The thrill of that precious moment will never be replaced.

Because those few seconds it took to get to the bottom step holding my sister’s hand, then slowly opening the door and looking wide-eyed at the coloured packages under the tree, is still one of the most joyous trips I ever took.

Memories? That`s about as good as it gets.