Christmas was the best for us kids, the lead-up to the season in school, the shopping, the decorations, the dozen or so boxes of biscuits behind the good room’s sofa, the aunts’ Christmas presents, their lids reflecting the season that’s in it. The toy show on the Late Late Show on RTE, the Irish television station. The expectation of Christmas morning, cut deep into my memory, not just a hint. The anticipation of the presents, the eating of a bar of Bounty before a breakfast fry that was cooked by my father. Church and chapel played a major role in the Christmas festivities. The usual ballads of Sinatra and Bing flew out over the airwaves. The chance of a white Christmas, remote as usual, part of the Christmas chatter. Silver bells sung by Jim Reeves. That song returns me to Strabane’s slushy Back Street, looking in awe through Doran’s toy shop window, shopping with my mother under the single lines of coloured globes that swept across the main streets in celebration:

“Silver bells, silver bells,

It’s Christmas time in the city.

Ring-a-ling, hear them ring

Soon it will be Christmas day City sidewalks, busy sidewalks.

Dressed in holiday style,

In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

Children laughing, people passing,

Meeting smile after smile.

And on every street corner you’ll hear silver bells, silver bells.”

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Mumming.

Mumming is an old Irish Christmas, house-visiting tradition involving a group of friends or family who dress in disguise and visit their neighbours’ homes during the twelve days of Christmas. If the mummers are welcomed into a house, as they were in mine in Knockavoe Crescent, they will sing, dance, play music and tell stories and perform the mummers’ play. The hosts must guess the mummers’ identities before offering them food or drink. They may poke and prod the mummers or ask them questions. To make this a challenge for the hosts, the mummers may stuff their costumes, cross-dress, wear silly disguises and adjust the tone of their voices. Once the mummers have been identified, they remove their disguises, and spend some time with the hosts, before they travel as a group to the next home.

The Mummers’ play could have been the first folk theatre in Ireland. It was in verse and usually, the main theme was a battle between two heroes, with a death and a miraculous resurrection. The play brings to life characters such as St. Patrick and his battle with St. George, Oliver Cromwell, Jack Straw, Beelzebub and the Doctor with his bag of cures and tricks. Amidst the dancing, music and comedy were the universal themes of good triumphing over evil and marking the year’s passing with a reflection on the death of the old year and the rebirth of the sun for the new year.

“Here we stand before your door,
As we stood the year before;
Give us whiskey; give us gin,
Open the door and let us in.

Cure I can for a noble fee,
From your complaint, I'll set you free.
I can cure by day and night
I can diagnose by sight.
The plague it is no plague to me
Get it, kind sir, and I’ll set you free.

God bless the master of this house
Likewise the mistress too,
May your barns be filled with wheat and corn
And your hearts be always true.
A Merry Christmas is our wish
Where’er we do appear;
To you, a well-filled purse, a well-filled dish
And a happy, bright New Year.”

O Holy Night

“O Holy Night”, and other well-known carols were sung all over town, in school, on TV and on the radio. It was my favourite. Also known as ‘Minuit, Chrétiens,’ the year 1966 was the sixtieth anniversary of its being first played on the radio. Indeed, they say it was the first piece of music ever to be played on the radio. These Christmas carol events, ‘Cantique de Noël,’ pervaded the airwaves, churches, schools and town squares. “O Holy Night” is still my favourite carol and conjures up those memories of a happy Christmas and Midnight Mass, going there by myself, to St Mary’s Chapel in Melmount in the late 1960s.

Such strong memories, not just a shadow from the past. Fifteen minutes before midnight I would set out on the usual crisp starlit Christmas Eve. Pre-teen, I was full of hope and joy for this was the festival of Christmas, the best time of the year, the night when Christ was born, as the carol says. A walking train of mass-goers headed up the hill to St Mary’s, an old chapel, built in 1845. Everyone’s mood was upbeat, exuberant greetings of “Merry Christmas!” shot out of the darkness as I enjoyed my thoughts, yet relished the palpable human warmth on this chilly night.

Thoughts of new beginnings, the season’s bounty, and of course the special dinner and presents the next day fuelled my Christmas cheer. As my mother would say, hope it snows on Christmas Day because no one has to travel. Snowflakes would certainly be the icing on the cake for us kids. Just like the carol, the stars shone brightly on that most holy of nights, the night of the Dear Saviour’s birth. Neighbours, family and friends walking up the hill to the chapel, as the hymn says, seemed to be filled with human weakness and yet through his birth, as the hymn goes, our fragility is excused. Christmas shopping done, turkeys cooking in the oven, weary travellers home for the glorious Christmas morning and ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’, and the other carols were heard across the world. Children practised it for weeks.

The crowds stepped through the chapel doors. I made my way towards the front seats that Christmas, wanting to be close to the altar, instead of the usual upstairs seat with my family. Everyone fell to their knees to say their prayers as the church filled. Erring souls saved by his birth, the mood was expectant. The choir embarked the service with ‘Oh! Come All Ye Faithful.’ The congregation rose, heralding the start of mass. Fr Convery entered in his golden chasuble, followed by six altar boys of varying heights and hair colours. He beamed to the overflowing congregation.

“In the Name of Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

He held a short pause before bellowing,

“A Happy and Holy Christmas, this wonderful night to ye all!”

With his simple greeting, the congregation breathed a sigh of relief. They were put at ease, and everyone glanced at each other. Their consciences and ears eased as a spiritually uplifting sermon would ensue on this glorious early morn.

The choir, positioned on the balcony, sounded its best with the people joining in on the most popular Christmas carols. Hearts were uplifted. A boy soloist in front of the altar began ‘O Holy Night’, his ice-clear soprano expressing joy for this night of hope, this night of nights. I was sure his piercing voice would have sent a shudder down many spines and hair would have stood on many of the necks. The choir and congregation in unison sang the chorus, ‘Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices.’ Well, I can’t say angel voices raised the roof of our ancient parish church but there was never a more passionate rendering of the carol, in my short lifetime.

Beaming from the pulpit, the priest lit a candle, an indication for all of us to light our own. The lights in the body of the church were switched off. Many men helped light all the candles in the pews around them, embracing this form of communal worship. In a candle-lit church in north-west Ireland, the little nativity scene at the side of the altar was aglow.

Fr Covery read the gospel: Isaiah 9:2-7. Heartfelt, he paused deeply at many words for their meaning to filter to his congregation. He repeated the extract ‘For a child has been born for us, a son is given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders, and he is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace,’ The choir then sang ‘Joy to the World,’ and I saw tears on many cheeks as the carol finished. The lights were switched on again, and candles extinguished.

Afterwards, embracing the Christmas jollity I ran off towards home wishing everyone a Happy Christmas. I was already thinking of breakfast chocolate from my Christmas stocking, turkey and roast spuds for dinner, Christmas charades afterwards but most importantly the presents Santa would bring.

Down along the Plot path, a winding path that took locals to the town, I would search for little icy wells across the lumpy ground. It was so named because it was used by the residents as communal vegetable plots. The ground was covered with little fragile ice-covered hollows, and sometimes I poked them with my finger into the water below. If it didn’t break, I hurt my finger instead. I had to find a stick and prod them until the ice shattered, with icy shards floating on top. I plunged my stick into every icy hole, I could find. Before returning home, cold but would run my fingers along the top of the snow-laden window sills and scoop up some of the white stuff, savouring the ice melting on my tongue. Standing on the back doorstep, puffing out my breath, the condensation formed and swirled in front of my nose, breathing in the sharp air and expelling a cloud, again and again. Eager to go back into the heat and more favourite TV.

A tract of open ground lay beyond the back garden, along its edge was the Plot path. Most of the year, muddy and pallid, in winter, frequently frozen solid. A huge hump lay against a thick hawthorn hedge shielding a primary school, where my sisters attended. We played on it sometimes, rolling and hiding in drier summer months, playing Cowboys and Indians, or Robin Hood, re-enacting the latest film or television series, cowboys always winning. Lee Enfield rifles were carved by penknives into discarded lumps of wood or bows and arrows made from sinewy branches. Read about my childhood and photos. Buy the books here
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