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  The Christmas branch did not have the required balance to stand independently and needed to have its back to the wall to keep it upright. So it leant against the wall beside the clock, which had my father in a constant state of red alert in case it took a sideways slide and upset the balance of the clock about which he was unbelievably paranoid. My father daily monitored this clock’s precision by Greenwich Mean Time on the BBC, not trusting the inexperienced Raidió Éireann for reliability. One would assume that once the tree was decorated his clock would be out of danger, but this was not the case. His daughters’ Christmas tree decorating was a work in progress, and the job was never quite finished to our satisfaction. The fact that the tree decorations were simply balloons and Christmas cards did nothing to dampen our enthusiasm. Fairy lights had yet to twinkle in rural Ireland, and the only fairies we had heard of lived in the fairy fort behind our house. With us five sisters, it was a case of ‘anything you can do, I can do better’. When tinsel eventually made it into our world, it brightened up our Christmas tree, which by then had become a real tree and had made it down onto the floor, fitting comfortably into a corner under the sloping stairs.

  The crib, strangely enough, featured very little in our home’s decoration, apart from a little cardboard model, the purchase of which had seriously stretched our financial resources. All the emphasis was on the life-size model at the back of the church. But with sheep out on the hills and other animals nearby in the stable and stalls, it was easy to imagine that the living crib of Bethlehem was all around us.

  When I arrived in Innishannon, I never had to go in search of a Christmas tree. Charlie, who delivered the post, threw the gift of a tree in over our garden wall the week before Christmas. This went on for many years until my generous neighbour went on to real Christmas land in the heavens. For a few years after that I went to the garden centre for my tree until a local farmer, John, decided to diversify into Christmas trees.

  Every year in early December his extensive farmyard fills up with a huge variety of trees with which he supplies the whole parish. It is a case of come early if you want to have the best selection. I love choosing the Christmas tree, and John and his helpers have endless patience in dragging out trees from the rows and waltzing them around the yard so that they can be viewed from all angles. As I am a bit of a ditherer, it takes me ages to reach a decision, but they pull out all the stops to send me home happy. Then they deliver the tree at a time of my choosing and erect it in the usual corner of the front room after it has been trimmed to fit snugly, with its trunk standing in a basin of water to prevent dehydration. It stands tall and elegant between two windows, waiting to be decorated for Christmas.

  One would imagine that when decorating a house for Christmas one would start in the front hallway. It is the obvious place from where to take off. But no. I begin in the middle of the house in the seomra ciúin. Maybe it is because the seomra ciúin is the winter room of the home. Once the fire is lit in there it is the heart of the house, and Christmas is at the heart of winter.

  Getting through winter would be a very difficult voyage but for Christmas. It is the glow in the middle of this cold bleak season that keeps us all going through grey, chilly, barren days. We focus on Christmas, and, like a lighthouse, it guides us on through choppy waters and brings light into the darkness. Ecclesiastes is wise when it states that there is a season for everything – and winter is definitely the season for Christmas. It is probably why even people who do not believe in the Christmas story get caught up in the magic. We need a reason to forget about the cold outside and toast our toes at the fire.

  In the seomra ciúin, the fireplace is the starting point. The overmantel is a great structure on which to hang Christmas decorations. Before the draping begins, holly branches are laid along the top, and, if the branches fall correctly they extend out along over the frames of the two portraits on either side. These are portraits of the two Lenas, grandmother and granddaughter, painted by local artist Jerry Larkin. It was Lena Senior who engendered a love of Christmas in all her tribe.

  Now for the string of tiny brightly coloured boxes that twine up and down through the various tiny shelves and curves of the overmantel. Then on go waxed wreaths bought so long ago that I forget where. These are the only constant performers as all the other bits and pieces get put wherever the fancy takes. Usually two fat Santas strut their stuff on the small shelves, and gradually all the other candidates find a home. There is much twigging and tweaking until satisfaction is reached. If you enjoy painting or flower arranging, the chances are that you enjoy Christmas decorating.

  Around the room, holly is edged along the tops of the pictures, with particular attention paid to the painting of my old home that hangs on the wall over a desk, right opposite the door. This old roll-top desk was bought years ago in a junk shop wearing a coat of black peeling paint. When, with blood, sweat and tears, the dreadful coat was eased off, there was a body of warm honey-coloured oak underneath. It has served me faithfully for years – first as a base for doing accounts but in more recent times for the more enjoyable pursuit of letter-writing. Yes, I am one of those antiques who still write letters.

  In the painting above the desk I tried to capture the ambience of the home house in oils, and now this painting brings my old home into the room. It is not a masterpiece, but it was painted with love. In the same shop where I found the desk was an old gilt frame that fitted this picture like a glove.

  Different little Christmas mementoes find their way onto the top of the desk and along bookshelves around the room until I am left with an empty box. All that remains to be done in this room is the wooden crib for the window, but that is a job for closer to Christmas.

  Next on the agenda is the front hall. Another bundle of holly from the back porch is landed centre stage, and two more boxes from the Christmas press are brought forth. Out of the boxes containing the Christmas cloths comes the colourful banner of the Holy Family. This goes on the back of the front door, which has been its location every Christmas since it was given to me, about twelve years ago, by my niece Eileen. She bought it at a Christmas market held as a fund-raiser for the Cope Foundation.

  The two small tables in the hall are covered with rich red tablecloths. A bit over the top? Definitely. But you can get away with all that at Christmas. On these tables go well-loved Christmas mementoes. My favourite is a little carol singer in a brown velvet cloak straight out of a Victorian Christmas card. Here standing against the wall is a large ornately framed mirror which slipped from its mooring on the wall above a few years ago and landed unharmed on the floor. Before I had decided to rehang it more securely, one of my friends, who considers herself more knowledgeable then me in interior design, advised leaving it on the floor. Apparently that is now quite acceptable in design circles. As Michelangelo once said, ‘I am still learning.’

  Along the hallway the pictures all get a thatch of holly and red ribbon with the odd robin perching amongst them. A detour into the kitchen, where the dressers invite decorating, and the Christmas cards draped along the top display varied Christmas scenes – above them all is a thatch of red berry holly. Once in a craft shop I picked up a string of tiny clothes pegs which are perfect Christmas card holders and ideal for the shutters of the window. The glitzy Santa looking like an overweight cheerleader beams down at me from the top of the kitchen press. Then out into the back porch with the denuded holly branches. They get a quick pruning into a basket and are taken to the seomra ciúin, where they will make good fire starters. A quick whip around the house to gather up the empty boxes and back into the Christmas press with them.

  By then I am beginning to creak at the seams, but stickatitness clocks in, and out comes the Hoover for a quick swish around the floors. Stickatitness is a word not found in any dictionary. It was coined by the old nun who ran the school laundry. While demonstrating the art of ironing, she proclaimed that the success of any job was down to sticking with the project on hand. All done, I put on the
kettle and collapse on to the kitchen couch.

  Late on a Sunday evening before Christmas when the light is fading, I head into Dromkeen wood with a canvas bag under my arm. For some reason I do not want anybody to see me in the wood filling my bag with moss. Maybe I have a hidden fear that there is now an EU directive forbidding such activities.

  Dromkeen wood sprawls along a hill overlooking our village. I can see it from my front windows, and its trees announce the comings and goings of the seasons. A slight veil of vivid green foretells the coming of spring. It slowly deepens into the varied hues of summer and then matures into Technicolor in autumn. That, in turn, fades into the dull greys and browns of winter. Every season the wood brings its own magic.

  Over the years I have walked its paths and climbed its slopes in all seasons just for the sheer joy of it, but this December I go there for a lowly reason, to raid its wooded inclines for moss. There is something mysterious about Dromkeen wood in the fading light. Bushes take on odd shapes, and between the shadowy tree trunks you catch glimpses of the dark river in the valley below. The river reflects the Old Tower and the steeples of Christ Church and St Mary’s on the hill across the valley.

  As I walk along the path, squelching layers of faded leaves beneath my feet, my hand searches the high bracken-covered bank beside me. Most of the ferns have given up their struggle to withstand the sodden conditions and have folded their fronds into winter sleep. But beneath and around them the moss thrives in the prevailing moist conditions. With my seeking hand I determine its depths, sensing by touch if it is deep or just skimpily covering the bank. Where it is deep and moist, I ease it gently in large soft clumps away from the bank and slip it into my bag. Some fallen tree trunks are covered in deep blankets of moss that peel back easily.

  By now my bag is bulging with large, soft rolls of moss, but still as light as a feather. Now I am deep into the wood, and darkness is creeping in through the trees so it is time to head for home with my stolen goods. Nature is bountiful, and having a wood close by is a great source of richness for all of us. As I clamber down the steep meandering paths, I catch a glimpse of the brightly coloured fairy doors that provide such wonderment for the children. In front of some of the doors are little notes left for the fairies, and over Christmas many of the children will come here to visit them.

  Back home, I am anxious to unroll the moss to test its ability to cover the crib. This is to be the first year using moss – up until now I have always used straw. I got the moss idea a week ago on a pre-Christmas visit to Hayfield Manor, a hotel where they take their Christmas decorating seriously. They had incorporated moss very effectively in their impressive foyer crib. Visits to posh hotels are not only about enjoying the good food and the ambience but also about bringing home their smart ideas.

  The location for my principal crib is on a credenza at the end of the front hall. I acquired this credenza many years ago in a junk shop, which may or may not have been an antique shop. Sometimes it is difficult to be quite sure whether you are in a junk shop or an antique shop. Maybe the prices are a clue – you have a better chance of a bargain in a junk shop. Searching through the debris is half the enjoyment. I came upon this little mahogany press fronted by two mirrored doors, with a marble top reflected in a mirrored back. It was a pretty unusual piece, and I had no idea what it was. When I inquired, I was told, ‘That is a credenza.’

  ‘What is a credenza?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Well, in earlier days, when the nobility dined, there was the possibility that they could be poisoned by their enemies in league with their own servants. So in order to make sure that the food was uncontaminated before going to table, it was first placed on a credenza, and a servant tasted it to make sure that it was safe to eat.’

  It’s amazing what you learn in a junk shop. To be a servant in those days, you had to prove your credentials in more ways than one. After a certain amount of price negotiation, and without tasting a bite, I became the proud owner of the credenza. It moved into my hallway, where it turned into the storage cupboard and, once a year, the foundation for the crib. A far cry from aristocratic dining but retaining royal connotations at the same time.

  The stable for my crib is a large, amazingly shaped piece of bleached driftwood retrieved many years ago from the beach in Ballybunion, Co. Kerry. Its intriguing shape caught my eye, and we dragged it for miles along the beach. Saturated with seawater it was a dead weight, but, fascinated by its potential, I pulled it along determinedly, much to my children’s annoyance. It was years before they appreciated its beauty. It spends the summer in the garden and then comes in for Christmas to be a fitting home for the Nativity scene. It has the appearance of an arched cave with stalagmites shooting skywards. One of the stalagmites is the ideal bearer for the star.

  The piece of driftwood is heavy and cumbersome. I am put to the pin of my collar to effect a safe landing on top of the credenza, but with a lot of huffing and puffing the end is achieved. Then there is a bit of balancing and levelling to achieve secure positioning. Mary and Joseph had enough problems on their holy heads not to mind having the roof collapse in on top of them in the midst of proceedings.

  Stable secure, it is time for the moss to unfold. It comes out of the bag in soft deep rolls like top-quality carpet and covers the floor of the stable. Then out into the stable yard and up onto the roof and over the surrounding mountains. The moss is magical and transforms the credenza top and driftwood into my vision of Bethlehem. The white peaks of the ancient driftwood shoot high above the mounds of moss like snow-covered mountains above a lush green valley.

  This ancient driftwood, which was heaved from the depths of the ocean, breathes antiquity. The water in its rolling depths moulded its contours and then cast it ashore. Now it has found a new location to tell a story rooted in time. The moss brings with it the stillness of quiet woodlands. The crib holds a hush of expectancy. It is ready for its royal visitors.

  On the wall above the crib hangs a painting of an old stone cow house from the home farm. With its rusty galvanised door and narrow slit windows, it comes from an earlier farming world. I always loved that old stall and had really enjoyed putting it on canvas. When it was completed, Br Albert, a patient saint of a man who had tried to make an artist out of me, looked at the picture. ‘You did a good job there,’ he told me.

  ‘Just loved that old stall,’ I told him.

  ‘Always shows in a painting,’ he smiled.

  The picture and the crib tell the story of another time. The box containing the rest of the story is on the floor in front of the credenza. It is time to tell it. I love this story, it has a magic all of its own. As each piece emerges from the box it brings with it its own memories, and they all blend together to weave the magic of Christmas Past into the magic of Christmas Present. First out of the box come Mary and Joseph, who are older than myself, having been inherited from Aunty Peg. They are a bit battered by time. I have a little bit of a dilemma as there is a second Holy Family, this one bought on my first Christmas in Innishannon and a little bit less battered than the other. However, out of deference to seniority, Aunty Peg’s gets pride of place. The second Joseph becomes a shepherd, because his garb is similar, and the second Mary becomes a doula, which is highly desirable with any new baby.

  Mary and Joseph settle down in comfortable togetherness into the moss with baby Jesus between them. Then come two cows, two donkeys and a flock of sheep to breathe warmth on the little family. comes a group of shepherds – one of them missing a leg, the result of being over-loved down through the years by overly enthusiastic little admirers. He has to be strategically placed and fits into a curve in the driftwood against which he can lean for support. We have a lot in common.

  Then comes a flock of geese. I saw them in a craft shop many years ago, and, because geese are synonymous to me with my mother and Christmas, I brought them home with me. Then come birds of all shapes and sizes. They nestle in the moss and perch on the uprights of the driftwood. A lar
ge flock of them have been collected over the years and others have been gifted by friends and family. Two white doves settle over the crib on the branches of the driftwood.

  The original crib was all about bringing peace – and maybe the family that the heavenly choirs heralded but the human world rejected was warmly welcomed by the natural world. Then come more animals, angels and a miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays. As I take each piece out of its wrapping, I remember the buying or the gifting of it. Little carved angels bought in Germany, Venetian glass birds brought from Italy by an old priest relative, now long gone. The little drummer boy given by my mother.

  When they are all in place, it is time for the star – a tricky business this as the star has a mind of its own and wants to become a tilting star – or, worse still, a falling star. At last it is pinned on the highest peak of the driftwood with a white angel waving up at it from a lower peak. This is a special angel as she was crocheted for me by a dear friend to whom life had not been kind but who, nevertheless, spread kindness around her.

  Then comes St Francis, whom I bore home under my arm from Assisi many years ago. Normally he resides in the garden, but come Christmas he takes up his position in front of the crib. It was this peaceful bird-loving man who first introduced the idea of erecting a crib at Christmastime to celebrate the first Christmas.

  Now for the delicate business of lighting. This is my first year to have a properly lighted crib. At least, that is the plan. As this corner of the hall is not well lit, I had expressed a desire for light in the crib. An electrically minded son installed the required plug and provided the lights when he was home on holidays, assuring me that the whole procedure was foolproof.