From the Archives: “Where It’s Christmas Every Day”

Written for the Journal by Joan Finnigan

This uplifting article (found in papers donated to the Archives by Helen Dunbar) seemed appropriate to the season, and especially this year. The article was published in The Ottawa Journal on February 26, 1949 and is about a man called Harry F. McLean (1883-1961), a wealthy construction tycoon who lived in Merrickville. A book (a copy of which is at the Archives) entitled Building An Empire - “Big Pants” Harry F. Maclean and His Sons of Martha byTheresa Charland adds further insight into this rather eccentric but generous individual. Theresa Charland was a guest speaker at the RTHS meeting in September, 2010.

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This is the story of a man about whom you all have read. You have read of his money-flinging escapades. You have read about the taxi-drivers who have gone home with $500 to their wives because of him. You have read about the soldiers and sailors who spent Bagdadian leaves, because of him. And you have read about the silly, little chorus-girls whose fur-coat dreams came true -- because of him.

You have read about his ostentatious, irresponsible gifts but I should like to tell you the tales of his charity that never make the headlines.

This millionaire, for millionaire he is, is a great, lonely man who lives in a stone house on top of a hill, a house that looks down a river towards the sunset. He lives in Merrickville - a little town that is going nowhere but is content to sit in the sun on the banks of the murky Rideau River. He lives there when he could afford the show-places of the earth, because that is the place where he began his career as a hulking young immigrant from North Dakota.

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He has travelled the earth, partaken of its fruits and sorrows and this is his home.

But it is a home without children and lonely, lonely. It is a tragic thing to have piled life upon life as he has done and to come to the end of the road alone. Money here is to no avail but he has not shut the blinds on his house and crawled into seclusion. Where he cannot give to his own he gives to others, and Christmas in the small town where he lives ishis day.

The doors of his house are thrown open to the children of the town. The lights from his Christmas tree are a bright beacon to the youngsters as they troop up the hill. Beneath his Christmas tree there is a gift for every child in the town, toys for the little ones and ski shirts and plaid skirts and sweaters and socks and mitts, a veritable department store array.

This is his simple creed, and I have heard him say it often, “We must be good to one another”.

A Christmas turkey goes out from his house to every house in the town. If the family is big, the turkey is big; if the family is small, the turkey is smaller.

Not every year, but some years, there is a Christmas party for the whole town in the Armories. There will be an orchestra from a big town far away and a kiltie band, for this party is the gift of a Scot. And food. And drink. And a prize for the prettiest girl at the dance. And a visit from the host himself.

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The millionaire on the hill is not just a Christmas giver. His desire to help others manifests itself throughout the year in a hundred little ways.

The Anglican church at the corner needs a new organ; the manse of the Catholic priest has been destroyed by fire; The United Church minister’s wife is rushed to the hospital for a serious operation. As if by magic the new organ appears, work is begun on a new manse, the doctor bill is paid. This is the giving of a great heart that denies the very existence of religious differences.

Young Billy Hodgkins, son of the town clerk, wanted to be a doctor, but the family had no money for such an expensive education. Yet, Billy is at McGill in his third year, and he knows who to thank for his opportunity.

One of the factory workers in the castings plant is killed in an industrial accident and leaves a wife and three small boys. One day the big, black Packard drives up to the door of the widow's home and the grey-haired giant from the house on the hill gets out of the car and goes into the house. When he comes out again there is a big, happy grin on his face.

The Wender girl is being married today. All is a flurry and hush in the house and at first they do not hear the car honking at the front. Santa Claus calls for the bride - although it is the middle of June - and she comes out, her hair in curlers and cold cream on her face. When she looks at the bit of paper that has been pressed into her hand she discovers it is a cheque for $300.

Timmy O’Hara lives in a little limestone house by the river and every day he pushes his wheelchair down the hill to his shoe repair shop and crawls over the doorstep. He hasn’t been much good since he lost his legs in a lumbering accident in the Black River district. But then - he hasn’t been hungry or cold or without shelter. Even his wheel-chair has been a gift from the house on the hill.

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Every year just after Christmas the lights go on on the rink that the great-hearted giant keeps up for the young hockey stars of tomorrow who are growing up in the little town. Every year a man is paid to supervise and keep in repair the big toboggan slide and the ski run which were built for the townfolk and which are used by both the young and the not-so-young.

A small part of the shore of the weedy Rideau has been dredged to make a safe swimmin’ hole for the boys and girls and the tennis court that belongs to the big house on the hill is at the disposal of all who wish to use it.

Roses go out from this man’s garden to the sick, and kindness goes out from his pocket to the needy.

In the little town it is Christmas every day.

The End