Working in news is a curious profession at the best of times, but even more so over the holidays.
Especially for a publication like Pique, which tends to produce its biggest issues of the year during the Christmas weeks.
So while most are spending December thinking about their shopping, or travel logistics to visit family, Pique and its reporters are often worrying about sources picking up the phone so they can produce enough stories to round out the holiday papers (how dare people work in professions that allow them to prioritize themselves and their own needs?).
The Christmas crunch is inevitably exacerbated by our big end-of-year features, Best of Whistler and Year in Review, which are a lot of work in themselves (but a labour of love, of course—watch for those in the weeks ahead).
As such, it’s not easy to make it home to family over the holidays when you work for Pique.
In my first nine Christmases with the paper, only two were spent with family: one because they came to see me, and another because I was able to fly home on the promise of working remotely.
And at the risk of stating the obvious, spending Christmas away from family is kinda depressing.
It’s a problem many so-called Whistler “orphans” face—just the nature of the tourism industry beast. Many Whistler jobs exist to serve the visitor, and most of our visitors come to enjoy our winter wonderland over the holidays.
So we don’t complain (well, at least not publicly. We definitely do complain).
We make due with good friends and good food, and the knowledge our family will still be there the next time we have some time to spare.
But what happens when that might not be true?
It’s a question I’ve found myself grappling with a lot this past year.
Growing up, my family used to spend every Christmas Eve at my grandma and grandpa’s rural store in Mayview, Sask.
It was a cherished tradition, one looked forward to every fall—games and laughs around the fire, near the gigantic Christmas tree so carefully decorated by nan, all the presents piled up underneath, as all our favourite Christmas albums provided the soundtrack. It didn’t matter that some of them were objectively hokey or terrible—they were ours.
A literal convenience store just steps away, stocked with all the treats a spoiled kid could ever ask for.
Those memories will last forever, though the tradition itself is long gone—the store was sold in the fall of 2015, when my grandparents moved to the city.
I still remember my last visit, that summer. I walked around the house and the well-maintained grounds outside (a passion and point of pride for both my grandparents) taking pictures of everything so I would never forget what was.
All four of my grandparents were still alive at that time. So while the distance from Whistler to Saskatchewan was difficult, it wasn’t entirely painful. I would see them the next time I made it home, whenever that was.
But since 2020, three of my four grandparents have passed. Being so far away, often buried in deadlines and work responsibilities, I wasn’t able to attend any of their funerals.
The long journey over or through the mountains to the prairies, whether by plane or car, was just too expensive and inconvenient, I decided.
Each time I was presented with the choice, explicitly or otherwise, work and my own comfort and convenience won out over family.
Whether or not it was the right choice, I made it—mourned alone, at a distance—and there’s no reversing those decisions.
What’s that empty phrase we like to use in regards to regrettable things like this?
It is what it is.
But maybe it doesn’t always have to be.
Without getting too specific, personal circumstances this year have prompted a change in that philosophy.
And this year, as the annual Pique Christmas rush approached, I made a new decision.
I will go home, no matter the cost, or the professional inconvenience.
I will watch for breaking news in Whistler from afar; produce two issues of Pique from the prairie tundra, even if I have to stare repeatedly at a frozen computer screen and a spinning beach ball, if it means I can spend Christmas with my family.
It might be the longest thing I’ll ever do, but life is too short—getting shorter every day, every year, every missed milestone and every lonely holiday.
For all of us.
And none of us know how many Christmases we have left with the ones who mean the most.
So the next time you get to make one of those fateful decisions, I hope you avoid the similar errors of selfish convenience I’ve gone with in the past.
I hope you make it work, whatever the cost or inconvenience.
And I hope you have a Merry Christmas, whoever you’re spending it with.
