It’s less than a week before Christmas. I’m not a huge fan of the day (after all, I’ve spent more time in synagogues the past 15 years than anywhere else!), but I do have a childhood ritual that I have re-visited often over the years. And it all has to do with a grumpy little angel.
The Littlest Angel by Charles Tazewell.
When I was growing up in Montreal in the 1960s, part of what made Christmas so special for me and my two younger sisters was lying in bed on Christmas Eve night and listening to the legendary Paul Reid broadcast The Littlest Angel on CJAD Radio. It was 20 minutes of magic that endures today for me, despite the fact that it’s obviously decades old and a bit dated.
Why does this story of a little angel who’s finding it hard to fit in stick with me? I’m not what you’d call religious, so it’s not that.
It reminds me of happy times. We didn’t have much, my mother was raising the three of us alone, but she always made sure Christmas happened for us.
And Paul Reid’s voice, a voice silenced too young, was unforgettable – gentle, comforting and with a hit of humour.
It’s a treasure. Give it a listen. I’m going to.