Home For Christmas Read online

  When my mother judged that some of our exuberance was satisfied and that it was safe to introduce them, she went up to the parlour press and brought down what she called her Christmas mottos. These were old cardboard Christmas scenes which had been in the house for many years. They had survived because she kept them safely locked up. One of them was a jovial Santa handing out parcels to rosy-faced children dressed in fancy fur capes. They definitely were not Irish children, so these pictures had probably been sent home from America by an emigrant relation.

  From the wooded fairy fort behind our house came a huge block of wood off a fallen tree: the blockeen na Nollag my grandmother called it. This lay across the back of the open fire and would keep it glowing for the twelve days of Christmas. Resting against it were sods of black turf with red flames licking out between them. As dusk gathered in, the radio was turned on, and we listened carefully to hear Santa call out the names of all the children he was about to visit. We breathed a sigh of relief when we all featured on his list. Most children at the time were called after their ancestors, so Santa was on pretty safe ground with traditional names.

  Then we went out and stood on the doorstep to look across the valley at the distant Kerry mountains and imagine we could see Santa with his sleigh and reindeers gliding along the peaks as he made his rounds. We also saw my father, bearing a bundle of hay on his back to the sheep in the field down by the river. The sheep were the only animals to be out overnight, just as it was on the first Christmas. Out in the stalls the cows were contentedly chewing the cud and the horses crunching hay from their mangers. An occasional cluck could be heard from the hens on their perches. Mother goose and the gander were home alone; their work for the year in providing many Christmas dinners was done.

  With all the farm animals locked up for the night, it was time for the Christmas Eve supper. The normal fare of brown bread was ditched, and we savoured the luxury of sweet cake, butter loaf and seed loaf. Some of these had been gifted to us by shopkeepers in town and were deeply appreciated. Toast was part of our Christmas supper tradition, and the bread was toasted in front of the now red glowing sods of turf. Plates of golden toast streaming with yellow butter joined the barmbrack and cake making a rare appearance on our table.

  Before any of the niceties that had our mouths watering could be tasted, the Christmas candle had to be lit. To my mother, the lighting of the candle was the official opening of the door into Christmas. An aura of peace and joy at the sacredness of the season surrounded her at this time. The candle was secure on the sill of the kitchen window. It stood tall, slim, white and elegant, embedded in a large yellow turnip edged around with a red paper skirt that sprouted twigs of dark green glossy holly glistening with red berries.

  My father lit the candle, and my mother sprinkled us with holy water. The candle cast a pool of light over the little cardboard crib on the sill beside it. One year, this crib had suddenly appeared in the window of our local shop. It had brought us to a standstill. We stood with our noses pressed against the glass, peering in at it in awe. Finally we plucked up the courage to go in and enquire as to the price. Two shillings? A huge sum in our eyes. How were we to procure it? But there is no barrier that can hold back a dream. And we had a dream: a dream that this crib should be part of our Christmas.

  We went home and thought about it. Maybe if we pooled all our resources? We each had a money box to hold any donations that came our way, such as ‘stands’ from visiting relatives or rare pennies earned for doing jobs for neighbours. Between all these little contributions, we might have enough. We emptied all our money boxes, and between us we came up with the two shillings. Now we swelled with pride as we viewed our investment in its place beside the Christmas candle.

  When supper was over, it was time to play the new records that were part of every Christmas. My father got them in the local shop, and no matter what he bought we thought they were great. The gramophone was normally resident on the parlour sideboard, but for Christmas it was a welcome visitor to the kitchen. We played the new records non-stop, but when their novelty had worn a bit thin, we went back to the old favourites. John McCormack, Fr Sydney MacEwan, Josef Locke, Delia Murphy and many others warbled around our kitchen. We savoured every note and eventually learnt the words of their songs. Then it was time for lemonade and biscuits. The red lemonade came in small glass bottles, and with it we crunched the rare treat of Kerry Cream biscuits. To our delight, the lemonade fizzed down our noses and caused our eyes to water.

  Meanwhile, my mother made the trifle for the next day’s dinner. She took a large red bowl from the parlour press and placed it on the kitchen table. It was a seldom used cut-glass bowl she had inherited from her mother. We knew it was one of her treasures. Into this she placed circles of sponge cake, layered with strawberry jam and tinned pears to which my father was partial. The contents were then generously laced with sherry. Red jelly, already melted in a ware jug and allowed to cool slightly, was poured over the contents of the bowl, which soaked it all up. Tomorrow it would be covered with custard or cream skimmed off the top of the churn. The thought of it made our insides glow.

  We did not want to go to bed and end this lovely night, but the thought that Santa might pass by if we were still up persuaded us. After a reluctant recitation of the rosary, we hung our stockings off the black crane by the fire and off the backs of the sugán chairs. Getting to sleep was not easy, and we fought against it, hoping to catch sight of Santa. There was a fireplace in our bedroom, and we hoped that we might catch sight of a red leg as Santa made his way down the chimney to the kitchen. But exhaustion won the day, and we were fast asleep when he finally passed down.

  Some say that Christmas is really only for children as if with the sophistication of adulthood we should leave such simplistic belief behind us. And yet, dormant within each one of us are the roots of the child we once were. At Christmas that child reawakens and we again believe that the impossible is possible. So, after much preparation, Christmas Eve finally arrives and opens wide the door into Christmas. All the getting ready is over, and there is no more donkey work to be tackled.

  The day before Christmas Eve is when I stuff the turkey. I use a breadcrumb stuffing, to which I add a generous supply of grated apple and carrot and a generous amount of thyme and mixed herbs, and I cover my turkey with butter and streaky rashers. Then it is consigned to the chilly regions of the back porch. After that, the cranberry sauce is whipped together. I love home-made cranberry sauce, and it is so simple to make, simply throwing a packet of fresh cranberries, the juice of an orange and some caster sugar into the liquidiser. When that is done, the vegetables are prepared, and that’s the mundane jobs out of the way.

  The ham is brought to the boil in a pot of water on top of the Aga, then consigned to the bottom oven for a couple of hours. It is then removed and left to rest overnight in its mustardy clove water. As soon as I hit the kitchen on Christmas Eve morning, I lift it into a roasting tin, remove its leathery jacket, lather it with mustard, honey and breadcrumbs and baptise it with cider. Then I hand it over into the loving care of the Aga, the grande dame of the kitchen. I love the smell that oozes around the kitchen as she slowly cooks it.

  Having lit the fire in the seomra ciúin and switched on the lights of the tree and the cribs around the house, I enjoy a leisurely breakfast and open the last of the Christmas cards. If any are especially nice, I give them pride of place on the line of cards hanging across the kitchen. I bring out my Christmas Eve tablecloth, bought in a Salzburg Christmas market. When I spread its gorgeous red candles embroidered on bleached linen over the table, it breathes Christmas. It is time now for doing nothing but enjoying callers and chatting.

  In the afternoon, I stroll up the hill to visit the family grave. In the churchyard, many of the graves are glowing with glossy holly wreaths and fresh flowers. It is obvious from the thoughtful arrangements that people are remembering. Standing by our grave, I too remember and ask for guidance from those wonderful p
eople who were once part of my life. My grandmother believed that the gates of Heaven are open on Christmas night, and who am I to contradict her? In any case, she was a woman not open to being contradicted. Looking at the names of the people I have loved on the headstone creates a link between our worlds, and there is a sense that the gap between them has indeed narrowed. I come down the hill feeling at peace with both of these worlds.

  Then it is candle-lighting time. The ideal is that some of the family gather for the lighting of the main candle, which is in the hallway, and that we carry that light around to the candles in all the windows of the house. However, over the years this has proved unachievable as gathering some of my unwieldy gaggle together before dusk is a mammoth undertaking. Needless to mention, there are endless last-minute jobs to be done. So we leave the lighting of the real Christmas candle until later.

  Now, as dusk descends, I go around the house at my leisure and light the candles in all the windows. I love lighting the candles in the windows. Ours is a corner house in the centre of a village on the main road to West Cork, and it is nice to have the candles glowing for passers-by as they go home for Christmas. Around the house, other candles are lit – there is something very restful and peaceful about candlelight. This all leads to one son’s seasonal observation that one year we will all go up in smoke, but I am very careful with them and so far so good. It’s been going on for a long time.

  When we gather to light the main candle, we have the tradition of singing ‘Silent Night’, a practice started by an English lady who spent many Christmases with us. She was a wonderful singer. With her departure, the calibre of the performance declined, but though we may not be of high choral standard, we still do it. It is a time for remembering because we have done this in the same place for years, and over that time many who were there for the different Christmas candle-lightings are no longer with us. For these moments, as the candle flickers into a glow, they come close to us, and as I sprinkle holy water, a practice inherited from my mother, the past and the present join hands. It is a sacred moment.

  Then it is supper time, and the ham is opened for tasting, and I discover if I did a good job. Here in Innishannon, we have an early mass, which is called the children’s mass, and the church overflows with families and children of all ages. The little ones make their presence felt – in other words, there is pure bedlam. Although I contributed hugely to that bedlam in my time, I am now into peace and quiet enjoyment, so I go up the hill to the late mass, which we call the midnight mass although it takes place a bit before that time.

  This to me is the heart of Christmas. I simply love this mass. The church has a special atmosphere, a sense of the sacred. The choir, as if inspired by the occasion, reaches new heights, and on that night the Christmas hymns that have been belted out in piped music for months around every commercial corner finally come into their own. This is where these hymns truly belong. In the quietened hush after Holy Communion, our soloist, Sinead, who has the voice of an angel, gives a rendition of ‘Holy Night’ that always makes me feel that this is the bridge to the gate my grandmother believed was open on Christmas night.

  It is lovely then to walk down the hill onto the quiet village street. Normally the traffic through our village is non-stop, but on Christmas night we have the place to ourselves. Well, almost. There is always someone going somewhere. Afterwards, we gather around the kitchen table with some friends and neighbours for a late supper and chat. When they all are gone home, I like to sit in the candlelit stillness of the house and just absorb the peace of the night. It’s Christmas.

  On Christmas morning at the home farm, we awoke with a thump of excitement. It was still dark, but we jumped out of bed and tumbled down the high narrow stairs. The only light in the kitchen was the glow of the Sacred Heart lamp and the fading embers of the fire, but we were directed by anticipation and instinct. Bulging stockings yielded up oranges, apples, crayons and colouring books. Games of ludo and snakes and ladders brought forth squeals of delight, and one year I got a new school satchel into which I eagerly buried my face for the fresh leather smell. Sometimes a soft cloth doll or wooden toys were danced around the kitchen, and Meccano was yanked out of boxes. No matter what we got, there was wild excitement.

  When we calmed down, a discussion was held as to who would walk the three miles into early mass in order to be home to mind the goose that my mother would by then have put in the bastible over the fire. I always volunteered because I loved the walk in the silent world of frost and stillness, and when we reached the top of the hill we stood at the gate onto the road and counted the Christmas candles flickering in the windows along the valley. Normally the valley would be clothed in darkness, but this was Christmas. Christmas was different. And Christmas was magic.

  After the dark road, the church was glowing with light. We were bursting with excitement to see the crib – after all, this was what it was all about. First there was mass to get through. We thought that it would never end. When the priest left the altar, we made a beeline for the crib but had to take our place in the long queue, craning our necks around bulky adults to get a peep. Finally, we were there, standing in front of the Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the cow and the donkey, all nestled down into golden straw with the star sparkling down on them. We loved it and dropped our big brown pennies into the box to help Jesus do whatever it was he needed to do.

  On arrival home, it was then our job to change the coals on the cover of the bastible with the long iron tongs and watch all the pots my mother had left cooking around the fire. Earlier, she had swung the bastible over the built-up fire, and when it was heated she laid her goose into it. It was important to get it off to a good hot start, otherwise we could finish up with a pale, uncooked goose. Then she covered it with the ‘veil’ saved from the killing of the pig. The veil was part of the lining of the pig’s stomach, which looked like a net curtain of circles of fat held together by a transparent veil. If she did not have a veil from her own pigs, she procured one from Danny the Butcher in town. During cooking, the veil kept the goose moist and tender. (We had no knowledge of cholesterol to worry us.) The heated lid went on top of the bastible, and around this she laid a circle of hot coals. When she had gone to mass, it was our job to regularly change the hot coals on the cover and to keep the fire well banked up with turf and logs beneath it.

  First, it was time for breakfast, and on the table was the large ham with its glazed mustard and breadcrumb coat. My brother carefully carved slices, and we savoured it with delight, knowing that there was more to come later. We tidied up the kitchen that was now filling with the aroma of roast stuffed goose and entertained ourselves by playing all the new records and exploring our new toys. When my mother arrived home, there was a flurry of getting everything ready for the Christmas dinner. We were usually sitting by the time the King’s Speech began, at 3pm. Every year, the King, and later his daughter, the present queen, was part of our Christmas dinner. In later years, turkey became fashionable in Ireland, but to me nothing ever again tasted as good as that Christmas goose, floating in a sea of golden grease and oozing rolls of gorgeous potato stuffing. It was probably a dietician’s nightmare, but oh boy did it taste good.

  After dinner, Santa’s generosity was spread all over the kitchen floor. We played ludo and snakes and ladders and fought over the rules of the game, with my mother acting as peace negotiator. Colouring books were filled in and fairy stories were read. Later, my father – probably glad of the break – slipped out to see to the cattle, and when he came back in it was time for supper. Despite the gigantic dinner, we were quite ready for it.

  Afterwards, we played cards, and this could sometimes lead to World War III. Eventually my mother called it a day and got us all on our knees for the rosary. With the calming repetition of the rosary came peace, quiet and the realisation that a tidal wave of tiredness was about to submerge us. We all trailed up the dark steep stairs bearing sconces with candles. It was always a day to remember. T
he memories of our childhood Christmases sleep within us for the rest of our lives, and every Christmas awaken with a blend of mystery and magic. Then the Christmas Past and Christmas Present, the believable and the unbelievable dance together. Heaven and Earth join hands, and our celebrations are the bridge linking those two worlds.

  A slow awakening is surely a highly desirable entrance into any new day. The mind and body were never meant to crash suddenly into the morning but rather to rise slowly like the cow out in the field. The wise cow slowly chews the cud and ruminates for a long time before rising in slow stretching stages into an upright position. Having limbered her muscles into a long easy stretch, she swishes her tail to get that end loosened up, then shakes her head into a neck massage and slowly ambles in unperturbable harmony with her body across the field. She is now ready for the day ahead.

  On Christmas morning, I imitate the cow. Having come to full consciousness, I wonder will I chance turning on the radio. On weekdays, I never turn on the radio before getting out of bed as I have no desire to face world problems while still in a vulnerable, prone position. Weekends are different as, for some reason, the airwaves are less intent on crucifying us with national and global problems before we are ready to face our own little corner of the world.

  I decide against meeting the outside world before finding out the state of my own mind and body. I need to meet myself first before having the world thrust upon me. The early morning is about investigating the state of your mind and body, and if they are not up to par taking the time necessary to bring them into sync with each other. After a little time ruminating, I ease myself into a sliding position and find myself upright on the floor. The aim of this exercise is to get myself downstairs to put the turkey into the oven. Once that is done, I will decide on the next step.