Mayo memories of the festive seasons of the past

by Barbara Daly

Christmases past were spent in another home with another family and are imbued in my memory with a twinkling, golden light.

In truth, the reality was a bit different, though they still held their magic.

Our home had its oddities when it came to the Christmas traditions, as undoubtedly all homes had.

It was the 1970s and ‘80s and long before the time of trendy M&S Christmases.

Christmas puddings were mixed in an old baby’s bath and steamed in giant aluminium cans with handles and tight-fitting lids.

The steaming lasted a full day and took place in a giant steamer my father had cobbled together.

The steamer was so big and created so much steam that the puddings (up to eight in total) had to be cooked outdoors or in the shed if the weather dictated.

My mother would spend the day topping up the water with a kettle and replacing the heavy old coat over the whole contraption to keep the heat in.

We were still eating pudding at Easter and each of my older siblings was sent back to their lives with a half pudding at the end of Christmas.

The pudding recipe was my grandmother’s and was written in careful cursive handwriting on a piece of yellowed copy paper.

When my sister and I were packing up the house after my parents died she found the paper with the recipe and she kept it.

It was stained from many years of puddings but was such a vivid reminder of Christmases past that it brought tears to our eyes.

For me most of the excitement centred around Santa and the presents left at the foot of the bed. However the anticipation of older siblings coming home was huge.

My eldest sister is 14 years old than me and as the youngest of seven, most of my siblings were adults for what I remember of my childhood.

They came bearing gifts and stories - and wearing fancy clothes from their lives in the city.

My father played golf every Christmas morning. Golf was something he grew up with and not the expensive hobby it has since become.

He was gone before we got up and came home at 1 o’clock in time to carve the turkey.

This was a sticking point with my mother but as was the way of the time, she knew her place and stored her resentment.

She dealt with Santa and seven bickering and over-excited siblings on her own as she cooked dinner for nine people.

Dinner was a giant turkey, a ham, mashed potatoes, carrots, broccoli and Brussels sprouts.

Brussels sprouts were boiled on a portable gas ring in the shed as my mother didn’t like the smell of them cooking in the house.

She made the stuffing for the turkey from sausage meat she bought in the butchers. There was Bisto gravy and a jar of cranberry sauce and that was it. There were no starters or exotic side dishes.

Afterwards there was custard and a mountain of pudding as well as Christmas cake and a sherry trifle, all finished off with a tin of Quality Street.

Alcohol was not served until much later in their lives when my father would risk a glass of red wine.

The remainder of the day was spent in a haze of sugar and TV, as well as squabbles over Monopoly. There was shushing for the Queen’s speech that my eldest sister insisted on watching on the BBC.

I will never know what my parents felt about Christmas.

They carried sadness from the people they had lost, and no doubt they suffered the financial pressures of raising a large family on one wage.

We certainly had a bountiful Christmas but one that I now realise my mother worked very hard to create.

Christmas is what we and our family, friends or neighbours choose to make it and traditions come and go.

There are no set rules and as they say, each to their own. There is just a hope to be with those you love and to create a little magic.