Boxing Day has always held its own gentle magic. Not the glittering, sparkling, heart-thumping excitement of Christmas Day, but a quieter sort of magic, the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket after all the ribbons have been gathered, the dishes washed, and the last of the wrapping paper has been stuffed (or shoved) into the recycling bin. It is the day when gratitude remains, long after the frenzy fades. The wrapping is gone, the noise has softened, and the leftovers, oh yes, the glorious leftovers, become the heroes of the hour.
When I was growing up, Boxing Day was never about rushing or planning.
It was simply a day to visit friends in town. My parents would pack us into the
car, and off we’d go, bundled up in scarves and coats that always smelled
faintly of wool, peppermint, and whatever dessert had been stored in the trunk.
We’d arrive at my parents’ friends’ homes, the air warm with coffee, pipe
smoke, and the laughter of adults who had survived another Christmas with their
sanity mostly intact.
The grown-ups would settle into the living room, talking about
“important things,” though to my young ears it all sounded like a pleasant hum.
Meanwhile, we children would scatter to the basement or backyard, where we’d
compare presents, trade stories, and try out whatever noisy toy someone had
insisted on bringing along. It was a relaxed day, as I remember it, a sort of
mini-holiday tucked inside the holidays. No schedule, no expectations, just
companionship and the gentle feeling that Christmas wasn’t quite over yet.
When my wife and I married, we discovered, to our delight, that Boxing
Day visiting was one tradition our families shared. Her family celebrated it
with gusto, especially since most of her relatives lived on the mainland. She
came from a clan thick with aunts, uncles, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, and
grandparents who seemed to multiply every time a new family photo was taken.
Those early Boxing Days of our married life were fun, but I won’t
pretend they were restful. We were young, enthusiastic, and determined to keep
all the traditions alive at once. We’d start out around 11:00 AM to make the
first visit in Vancouver by noon. Armed with a map of relatives (this was
before GPS), we had the route down to a fine science: Aunt and Uncle #1, then
the grandparents, then the cousins, then the Great Aunt who always had
shortbread cooling on the table, and finally the uncle whose punch bowl should
have come with a warning label.
Most years, the plan unfolded without a hitch, unless you count the time
I ate too many candied yams before lunch number three and had to discreetly
loosen my belt in the car. Everywhere we went, people tried to feed us. And not
modest, polite offerings, either, no, these were full spreads. Turkey
sandwiches, trifle, cold ham, sausage rolls, fudge, and enough cheese to repave
the driveway. You couldn’t say no. It was a point of pride for the hosts, and
besides, the food was too good to resist.
By the time New Year’s Day rolled around, I had usually gained enough
weight to consider rolling myself into the next room instead of walking. And
just when the waistband began to feel forgiving again, along came my wife’s
family tradition: the massive New Year’s Day dinner. This was a glorious event,
fun, loud, and overflowing with food, but let’s just say it was easier to fully
appreciate it once the effects of New Year’s Eve had worn off.
Then, as time will always do, the traditions shifted. Our parents
passed. My wife’s father passed. The older generation, those who once held the
puzzle pieces of holiday schedules together, slowly slipped away. We had
children of our own. Lives changed, priorities shifted, and the cosmic dance of
Boxing Day visiting began to fade. I miss those days, the noise, the bustle,
the endless plates of food, but I don’t miss them enough to try to recreate
them. Some traditions are meant to live in memory, wrapped carefully like
ornaments we take out now and then just to hold and smile at.
These days, Boxing Day has become something gentler. A day for
comfortable clothes, mismatched socks, and second helpings of turkey stuffing.
A day to flip on the TV, enjoy a movie, or simply sit in a chair long enough to
notice how good it feels to do absolutely nothing. A day to let gratitude
settle in, like snowflakes on a quiet street.
There is something beautifully simple about it now: the quiet house, the
soft glow of lights still on the tree, the faint smell of yesterday’s feast
lingering in the kitchen. Maybe a slow walk, maybe a nap, maybe a leisurely
phone call with someone you didn’t get to see on Christmas Day. The world feels
softer on Boxing Day. Less hurried. More forgiving.
However you celebrate these days, whether surrounded by family, visiting
old friends, or enjoying a peaceful day of leftovers and reflection, I hope
they are everything you want and need them to be. Because no matter how
traditions evolve, gratitude remains. And sometimes the quiet moments after the
celebration are the ones that remind us just how much we have to be grateful
for.
