Like many migrants, I suspect, my memories of Irish Christmases are never far away at this time of the year. But that slow-burn build up to the 25th, as the cold set in everywhere, now well and truly belongs to another era. Here in Tasmania, the days are long, and grey skies are almost an aberration as summer announces its arrival.
Growing up in Ireland, Christmas and everything it entailed was always etched on our radar. It may have had something to do with the array and abundance of food on offer, which was such a stark contrast to our usual no-frills fare.
As the day drew near, preparations were always well in hand. From September, maybe even August, our mother’s rich Christmas cakes were a familiar sight on the cooling tray in our kitchen on Saturday afternoons.
Gifts of biscuit tins from visiting relatives were always accepted with relish. And throughout December, not a day would pass without Jim, the postman, tooting at the gable of the house and one of us scurrying out to receive another handful of Christmas cards.
Freshly-cut holly
Christmas cards (the number bolstered by some shamelessly recycled from previous years), would be strung with string in loops under the mantelpiece and along the walls. Multi-coloured decorations would criss-cross the kitchen ceiling boards and sprigs of freshly-cut holly and false frost would adorn every window. A pine tree bought, or discreetly “sourced” from a nearby forestry plantation, would be given the treatment and it would light up the parlour after dark.
Midnight Mass, irrespective of the weather, always held a promise of high jinks during the walk in the dark to the church, a mile down the road; and there was always the possibly of another drunken interjection from one of the lads down on the back kneeler.
On Christmas morning, that unmistakable aroma of the roasting turkey would have well and truly permeated the entire house. Ma’s steamed plum pudding would have had Nigella oohing and aahing. Although she was inclined to overcook the vegetables, you couldn’t fault her pudding.
Semi-comatose
Served up an hour or so after the main event, and smothered with hot custard, even a modest-sized slice was enough to induce a semi-comatose state, and the rest of the afternoon would pass in some kind of sodden, calorie-induced stupor. If we were of a mind to watch the Queen’s speech, Her Majesty could well have announced she was abdicating and none of us would have blinked.
On St Stephen’s Day, also Wren Day, we were in our element. Setting aside our now worse for wear toys, we’d dress up and don masks, and head off to belt out approximate renditions of the popular sings of the day at neighbours’ houses, in the hope of garnering some spending money.
Apart from First Communion or Confirmation, it represented a unique opportunity to source some much longed-for cash
For some peculiar reason, Glen Campbell's Rhinestone Cowboy was our perennial favourite. It may have been the simplicity of the lyrics, but, looking back now, I realise the irony of walking the streets for so long and singing the same old song was entirely lost on us.
Rudimentary disguises
Emboldened by our rudimentary disguises, and even without any instruments, we generated quite a racket. Even the collies would fall silent. Midway through our “performances”, bemused householders would emerge, invariably clutching startled but seldom star-struck toddlers, to coolly regard our efforts and, when we were done, a few coins would be handed over, and off we would trundle to the next house-bound audience to repeat the performance.
It was said that in some parts of the county, well organised roving groups of musicians with tin whistles, fiddles and accordions were making a killing at public houses. But we were content simply to acquire a modest tally and divvy up the spoils.
Three decades and more later, no roast chicken or leg of lamb will have pride of place on our table here in Tasmania, even though Christmases in Australia are hardly restrained affairs, with many people still doggedly replicating the traditional European fare.
There was a time when prawns would grace our barbecue. Perhaps this has something to do with our household assuming a near vegetarian status. Anyhow, it seems a little unnecessary to go overboard on a feast on what’s likely to be a hot day. We’ll have the token potted pine tree, complete with flashing lights and tinsel. Though there’s no steady stream of Christmas cards to place on the mantelpiece, even if we had one.
Beach holidays
Like the improbability of any masked wren boys (or girls) strolling up our driveway, speculation about any frost or snow on the day is also highly unlikely, even in Tasmania. Come Boxing Day, thousands of people will head off to the post-Christmas sales. And countless more will begin their beach holidays all over Australia.
Another tradition is settling back in the lounge room to watch the Boxing Day Test cricket match, or the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. Such events underline the outdoor recreational nature of the festive season Down Under.
Over the journey, I’ve learned to make the necessary incremental adjustments. Glen Campbell can rest easy. I imagine this Christmas under a clear blue sky will be just fine, just as it always is.
