Christmas

I am one of those people who love Christmas and have done so ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I always feel an atmosphere in the air coming up to Christmas day, especially Christmas Eve. It seems a wondrous time to be alive and people genuinely seem to be more friendly and welcoming.

My earliest memories of Christmas are of my mother telling me (and probably my brother too, these memories encompass a few Christmases together) that it was time to write to Santa to tell him that most importantly I had been a good boy and secondly to inform him what I’d like as a Christmas present. Well, a comic book usually featured along with a toy Noah’s ark, or a fire brigade, or a cowboy gun and holster. Not in those days did we have the ridiculous “we mustn’t encourage violence in our child” crap. When did a gun and holster ever encourage a child to violence? Anyway, my mother sat down at the table with me and wrote the sacred letter. Then she carefully folded it and put it in an envelope which she let me lick and stick. The next step was to light a corner of the envelope in the fire and throw it up the chimney. This was how letters reached Santa Claus in the North Pole. I’m not exactly sure of the physics of it, but I guess the little flame at the corner of the envelope gave it a sort of rocket impetus which blasted it up the chimney on it’s long journey. Apparently it always reached it’s destination as I always got the present requested. Probably even more reliable than the internet!

Then there was the obligatory day in town. Mam (Dad, I guess was at work) took myself and my younger brother into town to visit Santa in Clery’s. We had to queue up outside as the excited line of kids and parents slowly made it’s way along the street and into the great shop. Then through the aisles amidst the hustle and bustle of shoppers and eventually we were able to catch our first delighted look at the magic man himself, sitting in great majesty in his red robes and long white beard.

“And what’s your name, young man?”

“Fergal,” I replied.

“Have you been a good boy for Mammy and Daddy?”

“Oh yes,” says I.

“And what would you like for Christmas?” beamed Santa.

“I’d like a book, and Noah’s ark,” I said, “And some sweets.”

“Ho, Ho,” replied Santa shaking with mirth, “And don’t forget to leave a carrot by the chimney for Rudolph and a small bottle of Guinness for me. It’s a thirsty trip from the North Pole to all the boys and girls in the whole world.”

“I won’t forget,” I promised as Santa put a small blue covered package in my hands.

“Happy Christmas” he said as I hurriedly returned to my mother clutching my little present in my hands.

When we returned to the street outside, it had grown quite dark and time to head off to McBirney’s across the quays to see the fabulous Christmas lights they put up outside their shop every year. We stood in awe on the far side of the Liffey taking in this majestic Christmas sight. There was Santa in his sleigh loaded down with presents, his beard flapping in the wind as he was pulled on his journey round the world by his trusty reindeer, led by the powerful Rudolph. The silent changing of the lights gave the impression of great movement as if we were watching the mystical voyage itself through the starry night.

Next we went to Grafton Street to see the lights there, hung across the street and sending great cheer to all the Christmas people, changing the landscape into a canvass of flashing colours. Finally we made our way to Switzer’s (or was it Brown Thomas’s) window display with scenes from some fairy story told with moving figures. After a tiring but happy day we returned home.

The weekend before Christmas day my father took us to get the Christmas tree. My brother and myself helped him to carry it home from the local shop (we didn’t have a car in those days). But this was part of the fun, carrying it up the street and to our house. Then as my father anchored the tree to the floor somehow, we busied ourselves getting out the decorations and generally giving a helping hand. To be honest my father would probably have done it all in half the time, but he was a patient man. And once the tree with all it’s lights was turned on, it was time to erect the crib. This was a beautiful open cabin which my father had built from plywood sometime in the past and had a door and windows cut in the back through which we could see the three wise men travelling across the land in search of the promised messiah. They were guided by a star in the sky and rode on camels. This was an old Christmas card we had received a few years before and which my father had used as a very effective backdrop to the main activity happening in the foreground. There was the infant Jesus surrounded by Mary and Joseph, a cow and an ass, a couple of shepherds and an angel kneeling for some reason in the back. This my father informed us was the real reason for Christmas.

And so the days hurried on and suddenly it was Christmas Eve. This was my favourite day and night of all. It brought all the hard work and preparations almost to a close. This was the moment of great anticipation for the wonderful day ahead. The only thing I found hard about it was the stink in the kitchen as my mother removed the turkey’s entrails before cleaning it, stuffing it and getting it ready for the oven. It took an hour for the stench to abate and I stayed well away until it was gone. Then the lovely smell of cooking turkey and ham, the plum pudding boiling away in it’s big pot, and the warmth of the kitchen which was quite unlike it’s warmth on normal days. This was like the kitchen knew it was a special event and wanted to join in. This was an extra happy kitchen.

Then sometime after tea Mr Dillon, the man who lodged in the flat above us, came down with a present for me. He was a nice man who I had befriended and often sat at his dinner table eating his discarded potato skins when he came in from work and strangely had his dinner when everybody else were having their tea. But every year he came down to our flat on Christmas Eve. He carried a box which he gave to me and with a shy smile wished me a Happy Christmas.

“What do you say?” prodded my father.

“Thank you, Mr Dillon,” I’d say, “And Happy Christmas”.

Inside the box, which I was always allowed to open when he had gone as it wasn’t a Santa present and so could be opened on Christmas Eve, was either a Mechano set or a Lego set. These were great presents and I was always pleased as punch to receive them.

My mother then got the tall Christmas candle and placed it firmly in a pot of clay. She opened the curtains a good foot or two and placed it on the window sill. Then she lit it telling me that it was to guide Our Lady and St Joseph on their way to Bethlehem where Jesus would be born in a stable. A lovely tradition.

At last bedtime came round and it was a night I was told I had to particularly make sure I went to sleep as soon as possible. I didn’t want to be awake when Santa pushed his way down the chimney and up to my bedroom to leave my presents at the end of the bed, have his little drink of Guinness and then depart as quietly as he came, taking Rudolph’s carrot with him. Funny he never left soot marks on the floor.

I hurriedly got into my pyjamas and got down on my knees by my bed to say my prayers. Then jumping between the covers, I snuggled down for sleep. My mother pinned a sock at the end of the bed for Santa to place some sweets in. Then my parents kissed me goodnight and urged me to sleep saying the Candyman would be along very shortly to sprinkle stardust in my eyes (as good old Roy Orbison sang).

I never had trouble sleeping at any time, but it especially came easy on Christmas Eve. However, it wouldn’t be long (at least to me, although it was somewhere in the middle of the night) before I’d awake with the thoughts of Santa rushing through my mind. Had he been yet? Only one way to find out as I sat up in bed and crawled towards where the sock was pinned. Would it be empty or full? It was always full and with a cry of delight, I’d leap up, turn on the light to find my presents on the floor at the end of my bed. Oh what a thrill as I tore off the wrapping to find exactly what I’d requested in that letter some weeks before which had winged it’s way to the North Pole. Then my brother and I would scramble to our parent’s bedroom to wake them with hollers of delight as we showed them both what Santa had left. Little did I know they knew full well what Santa had left and were only dying to get back to sleep. However, we were never aware of their urgency and it wasn’t long before we were both convinced to return to bed till the morning.

Then the second awakening as the dawn struggled to rise and we were free to get up and dress in preparation for the great day. First, before we could have any sweets or get down to any serious play with our new toys, we had to have breakfast (in later years it was a glass of water as we had to fast before Holy Communion) and head off to mass. During those days of Latin intonation and graveness the priest actually smiled and wished the whole congregation a Happy Christmas at the end of the mass.

Then we came home and were allowed full rein with our toys and sweets. As always my Uncle Raffles (his real name was Charles but everybody called him Raffles) arrived at our house in his car and always gave me a half crown for Christmas. He stayed for about an hour talking and joking and drinking his pre-warmed bottle of Guinness. I like Guinness today, but I couldn’t stand it warm. Ah well, different times, different folks!

Then at around four o’clock in the afternoon my mother summoned us in for dinner. It was the one day in the year I’d be truly starving at the lateness of the hour. We normally had dinner at dinner time (one o’clock) and tea at teatime (six o’clock). This was the normal way of the universe, in our house at any rate.

First we’d get the rich creamy soup. And then the main fare would arrive, the golden cooked turkey, the steaming ham, the brussels sprouts (a particular favourite of mine to this day) and the roast potatoes. My father always gave me a leg of the turkey as he told me this was what a man should eat, even though I’d have much preferred the breast. No matter, it was delicious. And as always we were too full to have any of the plum pudding, although it was duly brought to the table, sprinkled with whiskey and lit, it’s blue flame just discernable in the gathering dusk. Accordingly we left it till later in the evening. I didn’t particularly like the plum pudding itself, but I sure as hell liked the brandy butter. I remember one Christmas discovering the brandy butter already made a few days before and scoffing about half of it. I was very sick that day, I can tell you.

Over the years, Christmas changed little in our house. I grew older of course, and old friends like Santa and Mr Dillon left the scene and a little of the magic went with them. But then my own kids came along and reignited the old memories once again. I attempted to build a crib just like my father had done all those years ago, but not being gifted with my hands, it turned out a miserable failure. So I bought one instead. It was never like my father’s though. And of course Santa came back.

As we lived in one of those new fangled houses which didn’t have a fire place (this hot air central heating thing was all the rage) I had to come up with a new way of getting Santa’s letter to him. So I just got my kids to put it in the local letter box and let An Post worry about it. Fair play to them, they always got the letter to the North Pole on time. I often wonder what exactly they did with those letters as I know I wasn’t the only one posting them. Santa of course had to have a skeleton key which fitted every house which didn’t have a chimney. God, the lies we tell our children!

I think it was my firstborn’s second Christmas when he knew a little about Santa Claus and was able to inform me that he wanted a Space Hopper for Christmas. You remember those things, like a big solid rubber balloon with two ears which you could sit on and bounce around on. So I thought it would be a good idea to blow the thing up and leave it at the end of his bed. That Christmas morning when we awoke we found it strange to find there was not a sound from his bedroom. He should be up and about by now and coming in to tell us what Santa had left. Not a sign. So I had to go to his room and opened the door. There was the poor child, wide awake, sucking his thumb and looking in abject terror at this monster at the end of his bed. I didn’t make that mistake again.

So full blown Christmas was back in our house, Santa, tree, crib, decorations, fantasy and of course the real meaning. And now with grandchildren the whole cycle begins anew.

Have yourself a Very Happy Christmas this year and for all the years to come.