by Alice Taylor
In the kitchen, the Aga opens her arms in warm welcome. Here she is the matriarch, and she runs her domain with a warm but firm hand. A multitasker, she is undoubtedly female. She can boil, simmer, steam, oven roast and keep warm every pot or pan put upon her or into her, all at the same time. Though strong and powerful, she has the delicate temperament of a finely bred racehorse. If she is out of kilter the whole house is out of kilter. She heats all the water, and when she is in good form it steams out of every tap. She will snort and belch in protest if, after her once-a-year service, she is not perfectly retuned, and leave us out in the cold. But she and my Aga man have a perfect understanding and dance together in complete harmony. Over the years, she and I have become firm friends and have honed a great working relationship. She is the boss, and I humour her every whim.
At Christmas, she comes into her own. This morning she is glowing with cooperation and receives the turkey into the warm embrace of her top department and the plum pudding and bowl of stuffing into her lower one, telling me to go away now about my business as this is her job.
Following her orders, I put my breakfast on a tray and take it upstairs to my bedroom. I love breakfast in bed. A rare treat, it breathes relaxation and dawdling. Dawdling is good for the soul. As I partake of grapefruit and porridge, I chance putting on the radio and am delighted to find Christmas readings and music. Not a bomb or a bullet to be heard. Hopefully they are all taking a leaf out of the book of the soldiers in the First World War who ceased firing on each other and walked across no man’s land to wish each other a happy Christmas. It was a ray of light in a very dark place, kindling a faint hope of forgiveness and peace. Even though in their hearts they knew it could not be, the soldiers still felt the need for some light and hope.
Breakfast complete, I pick up my journal and spend some time meandering on to the page. Early morning is a most imaginative and creative time as the mind is as yet unpolluted with practicalities. William Blake, some time between 1757 and 1827, told us that imagination is evidence of the divine. Who are we to contradict him? But often our minds are too overloaded to receive divine or imaginative intervention.
A dip into a tattered book of poems, well thumbed by use, that I got from a sister who enjoys second-hand bookshops, and a browse through some well-loved favourites. Then a chapter from Deepak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. He is a spiritual teacher and writer who rings many meaningful bells for me.
With no more reasons left for procrastination, I get out of bed and, for some unknown reason, open the small drawer of a dressing table. There, stored carefully away in tissue paper, is the little cardboard crib that we sisters bought between us many years ago. I am absolutely delighted to come upon it. It is like meeting an old friend.
I eventually make it downstairs, where I do a bit of a tidy-up, light the fire and place the little crib on the hall table. Then for a stroll around the garden to see how things are out there and to wish them all a happy Christmas. The holly trees look smart and spruced up after their seasonal trim. This is their time at centre stage, with no showy flowering neighbours to steal their limelight.
Back inside, the fire is getting a grip, inviting me to sit down with feet up and have a look into the book I bought myself for Christmas. An hour later, it is time to think of putting on the dinner, which is usually targeted for around three. If it is ready well before that time or runs well after it, a gap could arise to listen to the Queen’s Speech. Listening to the Queen’s Speech was a tradition to which my father adhered, and for me it is part of Christmas. It does not always work out as the synchronising of the Queen and myself is totally a matter of chance. Unlike me, she holds steadfast to her 3pm deadline.
A quick peep in at the turkey, which is on the point of losing its legs. This tells me that it is removal time. It emerges brown and beautiful, and my matriarch Aga smirks in I-told-you-so satisfaction. On her and into her go all the various pots and pans, and, as they come to the boil, simmer and roast, I begin to lay the table for dinner. I am a tablecloth person, so I open Aunty Peg’s linen press and out comes one of her best cloths, accompanied by a set of table napkins embroidered with the reindeer names bought in Toronto with my sister. Off the dresser comes the dinner service inherited from Aunty Peg with all the necessary tureens and side plates to make a table statement.
An old nun in Drishane Convent told us many years ago that before people put a bite into their mouths they eat with their eyes. Presentation is everything. I agree with her. As I enjoy the table dressing, I am joined by four-year-old Ellie, who insists on helping by putting forks out backwards and announcing that she should get the table napkin with the nicest reindeer. From there on, peace and quiet evaporate, and law and order break down. It is delegation time for cream-whipping, bottle-opening and cracker-arranging. Eventually all are seated, and, before formation collapses, grace before meals is said in English and, if we have a Gaeilgeoir amongst us, in Irish too.
Every year, the Christmas menu is totally predictable, almost a replica of the one my mother cooked, with the only major change being that the goose is replaced by a turkey. Otherwise, all remains the same, as in countless homes around the country. Where Christmas is concerned, we are mostly creatures of habit. The one surprise on this table could be the plum pudding, which varies from year to year because the making of it involves throwing everything into it that remains after cake and mincemeat making. A strong dose of rum in the making and a crown of flaming brandy on arrival at the table mask any shortcomings.
After dinner, it is present-opening time, which evolves into sheer bedlam. I fancy myself as a Gaelic coffee-maker supreme, which is probably totally unfounded and is due solely to the fact that it was I who first introduced it to our house after seeing the recipe on a tea towel in a little shop window down the street, which is now long gone. In more recent years, a more expert son-in-law has taken over the ritual. With the distribution of the Gaelic coffees there is a general collapse into varying stages of inertia.
When the family were teenagers, this was card-playing time, with a game of a hundred and ten being fought out to the bitter end. Those days are gone, and now it is the more civilised Scrabble and various other forms of distraction that peter out into exhausted termination. Finally the unanimous conclusions come that the beds are calling, and after a bedraggled supper there is a general scattering. Then I am home alone to sip a Gaelic coffee and read a book by the fire.
In old Ireland, between the Christmases the countryside slept. The land ceased production, giving man and animal time to rest. Land workers went home on Christmas Eve and did not return until the first day of February. Their work was done, and it was time to recuperate after the hard physical demands of the year. Winter ploughing was carried out in November and spring ploughing was yet to begin.
The days between the Christmases were a total contrast to the rest of the year as there was no early rising, which was the norm for farm living. The cows, who dictated the pace of farm life, were going through the lethargy of awaiting motherhood. Instead of demanding early milking, which was the financial lifeblood of the land, they were now satisfied to lie contentedly in their warm stalls where later in the day they would be fed and watered. This afforded people the opportunity to have a sleep-in, which led to late nights. Card-playing and music-making went on into the early hours of the morning.
While the land rested, people rested. Foreign holidays were not on the agenda, so people simply stayed put, slept late and visited each other. On St Stephen’s Day, in age-old Irish tradition, the young went out hunting the wren, travelling around the countryside in outrageous costumes and entertaining people with singing and dancing. They announced their arrival at the door with a song:
The wran, the wran, the king of all birds,
St Stephen’s Day was caught in the furze
Up with the kettle and down with the pan
Give us the money to bury the wran.
The householders gave them money, suppo
sedly for burying the wren, but which was spent providing drinks and eats for house dances where local musicians got an opportunity to display their talents.
In North Cork along the Kerry border, the land was not good and emigration was part of the way of life. With small farms and large families it was an accepted necessity. Those who had gone to England were regular visitors, but many of the local young lads went to America, mainly to Oregon. That was a long voyage then, taking over six weeks. When they arrived there, they were sent out onto the prairies to herd sheep and cattle. This was a tough lonely life for young fellows who had left large families and neighbourhoods rich with people. They ended up camping out alone on the prairies where they existed for months without human companionship. The money was good, but the cost in human isolation was high. Some settled down in Oregon, buying their own ranches with the money they made, while others returned home and bought farms.
Some of these emigrants occasionally made it home for Christmas, which was a cause for celebration amongst the families and, indeed, for the neighbours too. For the returning men it was a chance to relieve the months of isolation out in the prairies and to combat the loneliness for home that many must have felt. The locals held the Oregon Man’s Dance to welcome them back. It was a great occasion for the locals too, a chance to meet up and celebrate the end of year. The timing was perfect as everybody was free to enjoy the occasion. For the rural women, it was a chance to dress up and have a good time dancing the night away.
There was a whiff of romance off these young men, with their large Stetson hats, locally known as Oregon man’s hats. Sometimes romances blossomed, and the men went back to Oregon with new brides. For those of us who were very young it was all wildly romantic, with a touch of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Later, when we were teenagers, it was the dance on St Stephen’s Night that lit up our lives between the Christmases. Some of our contemporaries were home on holiday from foreign parts and also from boarding school and college, and this made life much more interesting. Romances blossomed then too, but there was no heading overseas afterwards.
On New Year’s Eve, my mother lit another tall white candle in the kitchen window to welcome in the New Year, and the following day we had our second roast goose dinner. Then, on the eve of Little Christmas, the third candle was lit. This night had a special sense of mystery as it was believed that this was the night when water was turned into wine at the Wedding Feast of Cana. We viewed the white enamel bucket full of spring water with caution in case something mysterious had taken place within. However, the following morning it was still plain water from the Fairy Well by the fort.
On Little Christmas Day, we concluded the season with another roast goose dinner. Little Christmas is also called Nollaig na mBan, Women’s Christmas, and I remember Gabriel buying gifts for me and my sister Ellen on this day. The following day, we took down the decorations. It was a no-no to do so any sooner – you waited for the season to reach its conclusion. That week, the school reopened.
For me, the days between the Christmases are still a time to enjoy doing nothing. Our bodies are suffering from an avalanche of enrichments from which they need time to recover, and our stomach boundaries have been stretched far beyond their normal limits. It is the time for a little realignment. After the Christmas dinner there is a surplus of food, and this eliminates the need for cooking. Leftovers are a blessing. We use up a lot of time catering for the needs of our stomach, and with that requirement eliminated, a whole lot of free time floats into our lives. Time to do nothing. The mornings, instead of being a starting point to the working day, can be a slow awakening into a world of dawdling. Time to discover the magic of the morning, and days to be idled away doing whatever pleases you.
Let me unfold gently
Into a new day
As the sun calmly
Edging above the horizon
Before blazing into a dazzling dawn;
As the birds softly
Welcome the light
Before bursting into
The full dawn chorus;
As the cow rising
And stretching into
Her own body
Before bellowing
To her companions.
May I, too, slowly absorb,
Be calmed and centred
By the unfolding depths
Of this new day,
So that my inner being
Will dance in harmony
With whatever
It may bring.
It is all over. The time has arrived to take down Christmas. Back on the home farm, that was a simple enough procedure as the decorations consisted mainly of holly and ivy, which we simply whipped down and threw into the large open fire, where they burst into leaping flames, enveloped in a swirl of red and blue. No worry about a chimney fire as it was clean as a whistle after Black Ned’s visit.
The tree branch was returned to the grove from whence it had come and left to shed its pines. Later, it was used to block a gap or make a perch in the hen house. The most elaborate of the cards were stored away for next year’s Christmas tree, just in case next year’s American cards did not prove as exciting as this year’s. The gramophone was returned to the sideboard in the parlour, and my mother’s mottos carefully stored away in the parlour press. We children were reluctant to see Christmas go. The balloons were burst. The show was over.
In this house, taking down the Christmas is a bit more long-tailed as my Christmas has accumulated a lot of attachments. Amongst them is the crib that I bought with my first pay packet, and also the little cardboard one that predates it and which is now so crippled by old age that it can scarcely stand. From those humble beginnings my Christmas has grown in stature over the years. Now, however, her bags have to be packed, and she has to go. It is like parting with an old friend. But the time has come for this friend to depart. There is nothing more tired-looking than droopy Christmas decorations, and by the seventh of January they are all beginning to lose their glow. Mrs C used to say that visitors who outstayed their welcome were like fish who were around for too long. Christmas fits into that category. It is time to say goodbye.
Christmas is a royal guest, who does not stoop to lowly tasks. She leaves to her host the mundane exercise of undressing and tucking her finery away into boxes. The empty boxes are retrieved from the Christmas press and laid out at specific points, and the marathon task of taking down Christmas begins. The putting-up begins with the crib, but the taking-down starts with the tree, which is by now looking a trifle overburdened with her elaborate finery.
First to be removed is her headdress, comprising of the fairy queen in her flowing red dress and glittering crown. She is laid to rest in her long narrow coffin-like box. This is not a final parting as next Christmas she will rise again. Then down along the tiered branches, her jewellery of many multicoloured balls and baubles goes back into sectioned boxes. Slowly she is denuded, apart from the strings of lights twined around her slightly wilted frame. These are wound meticulously around their original cardboard holders. They must live to light another Christmas.
Finally the tree stands free of ornamentation. Somewhat less green than when she first arrived, the days of confinement have taken their toll. At the slightest touch she sheds a green shower of pine needles all around her. How to get her out of here without showering the whole house in a green carpet? The solution to this problem is a three-in-one job. The large pruner comes into play, and the tree is taken apart limb by limb. The limbs are pruned of their lesser limbs and cut into short sticks for the fire, while the little pine-needle ones are stacked into a bag and carried out to act as garden mulch in remote corners where they can compost in peace. The main trunk, still bearing the butt end of the branches, is set aside in a corner of the yard to join several companions from earlier Christmases to become a climber for roses or sweet pea in the summer. They are the ideal support for climbers as the stubs of the departed branches provide stepping stones for the greenery intent on maki
ng it to the top – a bit like the rock ledges that aid mountaineers to reach the summit. The entire tree is recycled to sustain the earth from whence it came, and the holly soon follows suit.
Gradually, the walls shed their ornamentation, which disappears into various boxes and returns to the press. The last man standing is the flamboyant Santa on top of the kitchen press, and when I reach up to tip him forward, he falls willingly down into my open arms. He bulges out of his box and has to be forced in. Could it be that from his high perch he has savoured the Christmas fare?
The last item to be packed away is the main crib. Eventually its turn comes, and by then the house seems incredibly clean and bare. That night, for the first time since the seventh of December when it was first switched on, the corner across the road is without our village Christmas tree, and the trees down along the street no longer glow with lights. Christmas is truly over.
Christmas fills a gap in the cold belly of winter. It serves a great need, providing a warm glow in the midst of dark days that enables us to step across the bridge from December into January. These are the two most challenging months of the year, and we need Christmas because without it the long grey days might be unendurable. From a rational and scientific point of view, there is no logic to Christmas. The practical amongst us would have us believe that it is in the sphere of fantasy and make-believe, the stuff that fairy tales are made of.
Christmas is a time to take stock and have a look at our world into which a new life has come. Most of us smile with delight when we see a baby. It brings out the best in us. The news of the birth of a baby brings a spontaneous rush of joy and renewed energy to all. Sometimes even the most troubled situations are calmed by the coming of a new baby, kindling the thought that it might be the time to make this world a better place for the newcomer. A new year has come and with it a sense of new beginnings. And, outside on the window sills, the boxes of primulas are glowing amidst the sprouting spring bulbs.
