The tableaux of Bethlehem on that first Christmas night centered on the Christ Child nestled among the straw of a wooden manger. His mother Mary, and Joseph the Carpenter, were seeking shelter among the doves and donkeys and fragrant evergreens. The family of three was to change the beliefs of the world.
Many years ago during the Holy Season in Ireland, potatoes were dug and pitted in mid-October and preparations began in earnest. Rails of black turf were clamped up in the shed, huge oak logs and skelps of bog-deal were piled high in the yard, full of flocks of turkey and geese ready for the market in early December. In late October the local butcher called to kill the pig. Neighbors collected for the curing and pickling and salting process. The first Saturday after the eighth of December, Holy day, was the “First day of the turkeys” in Killarney. The peasants journeyed to the Market Cross where fat birds changed hands at a furious pace.
At the top of High Street, the merchants did a brisk business. There were currants and barmbrack—a dark and rich drink with fruit. There were jugs of jam, china tea pots filled with lumps of sugar, holy pictures, fat Christmas candles, money boxes in the shapes of owls and Indians, oranges and apples in wicker baskets. To the “Oh’s and Ah’s” of the children, there were sassafras sticks and peppermint squares and licorice drops and caramels. There were handmade gifts of woolen socks, flannelquilts that would last a lifetime, knitted garments and homespun trousers. There were new playing cards and stopwatches that stood on their own and fancy kitchen hardware and dolls with china faces. There was a warmth and neighborliness inside the wee shoppes that modern stores lack. They all knew their neighbors.
After Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, the turkey was set into the oven of the fireplace. Early the next morning, the men were away to the moor in search of a hare or pheasant. The festivities included song-singing and present exchanging and neighbours a calling and the jolly soul was cleansed for another year. Oh for the days of the Kerry dancing, for the days of Christmas bells around the horses’ necks, for the days of the concertina player who sat on a butter box as he rattled out the reels. Missed are the days of brown eggs fresh from Market Cross and the old peasants heading for the snacks at the Aeroplane Bar.
The making of Christmas pies and confectionaries is done. The crèche holds three of the Bethlehem family. All is in readiness for the dawning of Christmas Day. The kitchen and parlour had been repapered and holly and ivy were tacked up on every available piece of timber. The “senchai” storyteller told his folk tales to each family from memory. Ireland of Christmas Past exists today, but only in memories and in storybooks.
The candles are lit in every window in those rural parts to extend a “Failte” or welcome. Hark! Is that the Clarence Higgins family approaching? Are the Mulligan’s and Cousin Mike on their way? Is that Christy and John and Maggie with their homemade cinnamon rolls? Is that Al and Enid Hagemann with their delicious fruitcakes? And there, this year as well as last, is Michael Murphy, bidding all a “Welcome Home” at break of Christmas Day.
May this December be one of joy and pleasant family occasions.
Merry Christmas to You.