Fond memories of Christmas 96 years ago
By Tom Gillespie
IN the Ballyhaunis parish Annagh magazine of 1988, Hannah O’Dwyer recalled memories of Christmas in 1928.
She wrote: Why, oh why, isn't Christmas like it used to be in my day - perfect in every way - before the affluent society and progress changed it into the money spinner it is today.
I venture to say that quite a few of my contemporaries regret the passing of those happy years also.
The date on the calendar didn't mean an awful lot to me. There were other things that indicated to my impressionable mind that Christmas was around the corner: one was when the flock of turkeys were taken in, in turn, to the kitchen at night and given the ‘forced feeding’ treatment. There was a container of mash made up of Indian meal and potatoes, rolled into shapes (in later years I realised it was like a sausage). The unsuspecting bird’s mouth was opened and the sausage popped in. Of course there was no option but to swallow. Every bird got its ration and this ritual continued for about a fortnight before ‘big market day' in the hope of adding a few more pounds of weight.
As the turkey market drew nearer anxious enquiries were made as to how much the hens and cocks were making that year at the surrounding markets. If the housewife had some satisfied customers from previous years she was assured of getting rid of the bulk of her flock early.
The sale of the last few dragged out somewhat and at last she was ready to come home and do ‘her sums’ - the amount in her purse would determine how much she could afford to spend on buying the ‘Christmas things’ that year.
Another custom was the Four Thousand Hail Marys. My aunt, God rest her, started on the last day of November - St. Andrew's Day. She had a piece of paper and a small stub of pencil in her apron pocket and at intervals I was asked to add one hundred or two hundred.
I never questioned where she found time to say all those prayers but she never failed to achieve her goal on Christmas Eve. This was a reminder of the four thousand years the world waited for the coming of the Messiah.
The day we got the school holidays was a red letter day. We knew there would be a can of sweets from our teacher for the infants, first and second, and how good those hard sweets tasted.
A day would be set aside when our parents went to town to buy 'the Christmas’. The gallon or two-gallon jar would be brought out, rinsed and aired, and taken along for some of the ‘black stuff’ to have in the house for the neighbours who called after Christmas.
One year a woman took a jar of buttermilk to a publican, who shall be nameless, as a gift, and when another customer called for his jar - yes, you guessed it - he was given the buttermilk instead of the porter. That poor publican earned himself the name of 'Buttermilk Jack’ for his remaining years.
One member of the family got his or her turn to go to town with our parents and we really looked forward to this trip. Every shop got a ‘turn’ and there was always a Christmas box and something for the child, a Christmas stocking perhaps or a bag of sweets.
The shopkeepers must have had a lean time for the following few months. While the money lasted the people kept buying, but I now know that money went further in those days. We would have currants and jam, etcetera, 'til St. Patrick's Day.
I still remember these big purple raisins: I must confess they didn't all end up in the oven baked cakes and we often filled ourselves with them.
Christmas Eve dawned at last. There was an air of expectancy that you couldn't really explain.
Mid-day confessions were a must for the children and on our way through the town we looked longingly at the toys in the shop windows and hoped silently that Santa Claus would send some of them our way.
It never occurred to me anyway to ask for anything specific. I was happy with my lot and happier still with what I got.
On Christmas Eve even the cows were not forgotten and were given a sheaf of oats instead of the usual straw.
Legend had it that they went down on their knees at midnight to adore the Infant Saviour. But as sleep had always overcome me by that hour I cannot vouch for that.
There was a fire put in each bedroom and, of course, the parlour. The candles were put on each window and then we would go round the village to see which house had the biggest number of lights.
After a lovely roast goose dinner on Christmas Day it was time for a visit to the crib, this time in the care of the bigger family members. We entered wide-eyed and wondered, trying desperately to understand to the best of our ability the tableau before us.
We dropped in our pennies and hoped that the Infant in the manger would realise that he had all our pocket money.
One Christmas Day will always remain in my mind. Having hung up my stocking as usual, I opened it up and was so pleased that I had a bite of the apple and a small square of chocolate. They tasted so good, but in my rush to get ready for six o'clock Mass I forgot to cover up my misdemeanour.
All who were able to walk set off in the dark and were joined along the way by the neighbours calling out greetings to each other.
The church was filled to capacity, men on one side, women on the other. To depart from this practice was unheard of. Mass over we retraced our steps homeward. This time we could see a little better where we walked. We were so exuberant that even the potholes on the untarred roads didn't seem to matter as much as they do today.
On the particular Christmas morning that I had broken the Eucharistic fast I was soon brought to my senses.
The tell-tale evidence was detected and it didn't occur to me not to own up. I got such a lecture that I will never forgot it. Didn't I know I should fast from midnight, etc., etc.? Not only was I told, in no uncertain fashion, that I was to tell the priest at my next confession but my older sister was also told to tell him the terrible thing I had done.
What a relief it was to me when in later years the Eucharistic fast was reduced to one hour.
I felt I had done my penance in the intervening years and was now forgiven.
Even though we didn't have expensive decorations, Christmas trees or fairy lights, radio or television, we didn't miss them, we were still happy.
What a pity Christmas has become so commercialised. To me the Christmas of 50 or 60 years ago had a quality and fascination which, I fear, will never be recaptured.