A Christmas Remembered Over the years, when January rolls around his thoughts drift back to his uncle Rocky, as they all called him. The boy was only eight years old that Christmas in 1943, but the memory of his uncle shines brighter than any ornament hung on the Christmas tree. Rocky wasn’t just his mother’s youngest brother; he was a whirlwind of laughter and life, a man whose presence could light up the darkest corner of any room. Handsome, vivacious, and brimming with energy, he carried the charm of their French Canadian roots as easily as he carried a tune. That Christmas, he was home on leave, his Navy uniform crisp, and his smile even sharper. The boy first remembered the sting of disappointment when Rocky sat him down the night before Christmas. “I didn’t get you a gift,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “You didn’t deserve one this year.” The boy’s heart sank into his boots. He stared at his uncle, unsure if he should cry or protest, but the stern look on his uncle’s face held him silent. That night, the boy went to bed feeling hollow, wondering what he had done to fall from is uncle’s favor. Christmas morning, though, Rocky’s grin was back in full force. He handed the boy a box, wrapped neatly in plain brown paper. The boy tore it open with the enthusiasm only an eight-year-old could muster, and there it was, a model train set. It was the most magical thing he had ever seen. Rocky laughed as the boy hugged him tight, his tears from the night before forgotten in an instant. Later that week, the boy woke up late one night to the sound of laughter. The kind of loud, carefree laughter that fills the air with warmth even in the dead of winter. He crept to the window and pulled back the shade. There, under the pale glow of the streetlamp, was Rocky. He was sledding down a hill near the house with a shipmate, the two of them bundled up against the cold but singing at the top of their lungs. “Jingle balls! Jingle balls!” they hollered, their sled careening wildly over the icy slope. The sight of them, grown men acting like boys, their voices carrying through the frosty night, made him giggle despite himself. For a moment, he felt like the war and all its shadowy weight didn’t exist. That was Rocky. He had a way of making the world brighter, even if just for a little while. Only a few weeks later, the news came. His uncle Rocky, only 22, was gone. He had been lost at sea when his Navy ship sank after a collision. The vibrant young man who had filled the boy’s home with laughter and life was now a memory, etched in the hearts of everyone who had ever loved him. Each January, the boy, himself grown into a man, would feel the chill of the cold Atlantic waters. But he would also remember Rocky singing in the snow, his voice echoing through the years. And though the song was silly and his time with the boy far too short, he had taught the boy something enduring: that even in the darkest nights, joy can be found, if only we let it. This story is based on a letter for a newspaper article, written by Larry Paul, Newburyport MA, about his memory of his uncle Francis Robert d’Entremont (Rocky) and the Christmas of 1943. Read the Remembrance Page of Francis Robert d’Entremont who was lost a sea on January 6, 1944, while serving in the United States Navy Reserve, as a Chief Gunners Mate, on the USS Saint Augustine. His mother was born in Salmon River and his father was born in West Pubnico, Yarmouth Co., NS.