Home For Christmas

by Alice Taylor

  I am not an electrical genius and am always amazed when my efforts are rewarded with success. I gingerly laid the fragile strings of lights strategically and hopefully artistically around my wildlife crib, entwining the little star, the angels’ wings and the animals on the tops of the mountains. Then into the depths of the stable, giving the most light around the central figures so that the greatest glow was around the baby. The plan was to have the plug end finishing up at the power point, and, to my surprise, it did. Then for the big switching on. Would the whole thing light up? It did! My first properly lit crib. Joy to the world!

  Waiting patiently until the crib is done, the Christmas tree stands in a pool of dark green foliage in the corner between two windows of the front room. This room links the kitchen to the front hallway and so is a bit of a commuter belt, with windows looking onto the village street. Sitting in here you can watch the world go by outside the window, and my husband very appropriately christened it the curiosity room. During the summer months, bumper-to-bumper traffic passes by into West Cork, and at Christmas, when the lights on our village tree across the road are turned on and the other trees along the street are festooned with fairy lights, they all dance together in a shimmer of festive glow.

  From the Christmas press come the boxes of tree decorations, to be landed at the base of the tree. First the lights. While with the crib the lights are the finishing touch, with the tree they are the first step. Three long lengths of fairy lights wound carefully around cardboard are unwound and laid out along the floor for a test run. When they are plugged in and each one sparkles along the floor, there is a sigh of relief.

  A stepladder is brought into action to reach the very top of the tree and drape the lights from there down along the branches. Bearing in mind the advice of my cautious neighbour that ‘no one over sixty should mount a stepladder’, I step on it with due care. I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction of telling me, ‘I told you so.’ The lights are guided down along the branches, blending in and out through the greenery, until the whole tree is entwined. Then another light test. They glow. I turn off the power to avoid any accidents while decorating. My pessimistic neighbour would have ‘I told you so’ ammunition for months.

  First to land, on top of the tree, is the fairy queen, wearing a golden crown and flaunting a flowing, rich red, regal gown. Created for me by a friend who is gifted at lacemaking and crochet, this lady in red is queen of the Christmas tree. The first attempted landing by Her Royal Highness fails because there is not enough space between the peak of the tree and the ceiling to allow her to stand erect and display her finery to advantage. Down off the stepladder. After a search of the back porch, my small pruner is located, then back up the ladder and the top branch comes down a notch. Up goes Her Highness onto the trimmed peak, which disappears up under her flowing finery and holds her firmly in place. From her exalted location she can view her kingdom – she has the best view in the house.

  The desired theme is red and gold, but unfortunately this decorator is not an observer of hard and fast rules so, as the decorating progresses, other hues filter in. A determined start is made with red, or at least mostly red, baubles, starting with miniatures at the top, growing in girth as they descend. Some have been around for a long time and are showing the dents of age. They have to be hung with the best side out. Others, acquired later at various Christmas shows, glow with newness and look good from any angle. Paper clips are slipped into hooks at the top to better allow dangling space. It is lovely to see all the baubles shimmering between the branches.

  Finally the bauble boxes are empty, and the green tree has a red glow. Next the box containing delicate little golden trees, sleighs and angels is opened. These came from Germany, where the Christmas tree originated and where people are still masters of Christmas tree decorations. These are so light and petite that it is only when they catch the light that they shimmer and become visible, so hanging them at the right angle is a challenge. But when they glow they instantly make all the painstaking effort worthwhile.

  Then sentiment comes into play, and on goes a fat, white hand-knitted snowman, bought at a Christmas fair by an appreciative sister who never cast on a knitting stitch in her life but who is hugely impressed by anyone who does. Then a small red purse, given as a gift many years ago to a little girl who became inordinately attached to it and who smiles in remembrance every Christmas when she sees it on the tree. Little Christmas stockings belonging to a beloved sister who lived in Canada but who always came home for Christmas. She adored Christmas and now is remembered on the tree. Three hand-knitted Santas, sent from America by a lady confined to a wheelchair who found the therapy of knitting soothing. A time-battered old Santa boot that has seen many Christmases and has the appearance of it.

  And on it goes. Every decoration that comes out of the boxes has its own story, and the decorating of the tree is a journey over the years and to many parts of the world. It has the richness of remembering. Finally every little trinket has found a home, and the empty boxes go back into the Christmas press to await the return of their contents at a later date. The tree is overladen, overcrowded and full of remembrances. Next, it is down to ground level, where the tree’s trunk is held firmly in place by an iron base. Beneath it is a basin of water to prevent dehydration. A red tablecloth is swirled around the base, hiding these unsightly objects. The wooden stable made by a young enthusiastic carpenter, now no longer so young, goes under the tree, and into that the large baby Jesus moulded by Sr Eithne. It is lighting-up time, and the whole tree comes alive. Time to stand back and admire. Christmas is moving in.

  With the tree done, it is time to tackle the surrounding room. The little china crib that I bought with my first pay packet goes on top of the television cupboard. Above this press is a painting of geese, which, over the years, has brought me hours of pleasant viewing – far more than the television beneath it.

  My husband and I bought this painting in a West Cork gallery on our thirtieth wedding anniversary. We were out for the day and called into an art gallery on the way home. Amongst the other paintings was this one by Susan Webb of geese in a river surrounded by hills. I can still remember the first time I saw this picture. I was climbing up the stairs of the Old Mill Gallery in West Cork and the picture was strategically placed right at the top. It brought me to a standstill. I was back on the riverbank in our farm, watching the geese exulting in the flowing water. It was immediately obvious that this artist knew her geese. Geese have an odd way of ducking their beaks into the water and then tossing their heads upwards and standing back, preening themselves in self-admiration. You have to know your geese well to capture all of this in a painting, and this picture had it all.

  I swallowed twice when I saw the price. Gabriel had no such reservations, but I was having a Scrooge day, so we came home without the picture. But I brought it home in my mind. The geese would not go away but stayed honking around in my head. I rang my friend Mary, who paints with me. She listened to my spiel and demanded to know, ‘Have you the money?’ When I confessed that I did, she said, ‘Will you go back out the road and buy that bloody picture? Because if you don’t, you will be forever bellyaching about it.’

  The reason for her clear assessment of the situation was because a few years earlier there had been a similar situation, and my inner Scrooge had won. She had listened to me regretting it for months afterwards. So Mary knew what she was talking about. The following day, Gabriel and I went back out the road and bought the geese. I have never regretted it. Now I tuck the red berry holly in behind them. The geese and the small crib are a little bit of home.

  The holly continues around the room, with red ribbons trailing along the branches. The tiny fragile crib made out of wood shavings finds its annual resting place on Aunty Peg’s sideboard. Santa in a rickety sleigh lands on top of the grandfather clock. When all is done, I sit down in the glowing lights of the tree and watch the world go by.

  When I opened the kitchen door,
there it was, sitting on the table. A compact, firmly wrapped, small and square parcel. I approached it with curiosity and lifted it up to determine its contents. Not unduly heavy but yet I felt that it contained something of substance. I shook it. Not a rattle to be heard. It was as firmly self-contained as a leather sliothar. The little missive had the appearance that it could come hurling through space and still remain intact. There was no possibility that whatever was within could be damaged or even dented. This little parcel had been securely wrapped by a master wrapper.

  But you cannot restrain a smell. It vaguely permeated the air around the little box. I sniffed. Then sniffed deeper. The odour evaded any specific identification by my senses. Then I took a deep inhalation that drew the smell down into my inner being. Very, very slowly, the faint aroma began to uncurl deep layers of memory. Somewhere in the remote pages of my mind, a thurible swung through the air. Interesting, I thought. The fascination with the parcel began to grow.

  I am not a instant post-opener. If you are the receiver of envelopes with windows, I believe that those windows should remained firmly shut until after you have enjoyed early morning sustenance and should not be allowed to taint a good breakfast. If your post is of a more refreshing and uplifting nature, the process of disclosure should be savoured at a later time, not hurriedly submerged with porridge and marmalade. So, my little parcel remained on the kitchen table.

  Breakfast over, I went about the enjoyable business of filling the bird feeders and having a meander around the garden to check up on what was going on out there. Every gardener knows that you go into the garden for a quick look around but you are still there a couple of hours later. Eventually, as the cold began to soak into my bones, I headed in for the warmth of the kitchen, where I assembled my lunch on a tray and carried it to the seomra ciúin.

  I put my tray down on Mrs C’s table. Mrs C spent fourteen of her twilight years with us before her final exit, and for me those years were a learning curve. ‘Don’t ever grow old, my dear,’ she instructed in imperious tones with the air of one accustomed to being obeyed. ‘It’s a deplorable condition.’ But she had mastered the art of growing old gracefully, and anything that made old age more bearable and comfortable she acquired. One of those acquisitions was a light, elegant coffee table on wheels. You may wonder about the wheels. But when muscles are stiff and movement is restricted, it is sometimes easier to move an object than manipulate the body around it.

  Mrs C’s table has two levels. The lower shelf was for magazines, books and miscellaneous objects that needed to be within reaching distance. The top was a landing strip for trays carrying snacks and, in the evenings, Mrs C’s cut-glass tumbler glinting with warm amber whiskey. The whiskey was one of her cushions against the ravages of old age but was never taken to excess, as that would have been against the rules of good behaviour in which she was a staunch believer. When she made her final exit, I inherited her whiskey table, and I soon realised what a well-thought-out acquisition it was. Restored and repolished, it slides like a ballerina at the slightest touch and is sometimes more mobile than its owner.

  Before lunch, I had landed my precious parcel on Mrs C’s table. She would have approved of the person who wrapped this parcel. She liked things done properly, and this parcel had been wrapped with the thoroughness of an expert. I tried to prise the firm adhesive tape from around the top with my fingers, but it defied my efforts. I had to withdraw to the kitchen and bring forth a vicious little kitchen devil. I slipped the blade in under the tape and cut neatly along the top. Two flaps rose simultaneously like wings released from bondage, and soft white tissue paper fluffed itself up. A deep and intriguing red colour glowed from within, and the rich aromatic smell of incense wafted out.

  I delicately folded back the layers of tissue paper to reveal the most gorgeous deep-red candle. It smelt of benediction, convent chapels and cloistered monks. I eased out the beautiful candle from the depths of the little box, and the delicately waxed band around it informed me that the smell was frankincense. Frankincense: the gift that the wise men had brought to Bethlehem from the East. What a gift! It was from a friend who creates the most amazing lightly scented handmade candles. Over the years, I had received lavender- and rose-scented candles from him, but this was the first frankincense one. On this week before Christmas, I felt blessed to have received such a wonderful gift. It was a link bridging the ages to Bethlehem. For the first Christmas ever I would not light the traditional white Irish candle but this rich, red, frankincense candle with roots stretching back to the origins of Christianity.

  Elated by this wonderful gift I rang my friend straight away to tell him of my delight. I have learnt from experience that thanks should never be put on hold but let flow with the tide of gratitude. If put on hold, it could lose its spontaneity, or, worse still, never get done. Larry, whose little workshop and candle outlet is located in Bennettsbridge, Co. Kilkenny, the home of much creativity, was delighted to hear about the reaction to his candle.

  Years earlier, I had called to his workshop with a friend and never forgot the array of wonderful candles and essences that greeted us when we pushed open the door. It was magical. Since then, I make contact when my candle supply needs to be replenished. ‘I had a lot of difficulty sourcing the requirements to make that frankincense candle,’ he told me, ‘and that one is just a trial sample. I sent it to you to see what you think.’

  ‘Consider it an outstanding success,’ I assured him.

  ‘But you did not light it yet, did you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, not until Christmas night,’ I told him, ‘but judging by the smell, the feel and the gorgeous colour it cannot but be fantastic.’

  ‘Well, so far so good anyway,’ he laughed, ‘but I will await the final judgement after lighting.’

  ‘I’ll report back,’ I assured him, but I had absolute confidence in the success of his frankincense candle.

  I normally put my traditional white Christmas candle in an old earthenware crock full of sand and surrounded it with red berry holly. This royal newcomer warranted a slightly different display. One of the pluses of being a collector (a more selective name for a hoarder) is that when a special occasion unexpectedly occurs, you may have something that will rise to it. On my sideboard, which I inherited from Aunty Peg, is a Waterford cut-crystal cake stand.

  When my darling husband and I reached our fifteenth wedding anniversary, which is the crystal one, he decided to mark it with a crystal gift. He was standing outside Egan’s in Cork, inspecting the window display for something suitable. Egan’s was then one of the jewels of Patrick Street, with its mahogany and glass door and huge windows sparkling with Cork silver, cut glass and jewellery.

  Who should appear beside him but my sister, who lives in another part of the country but who happened to be in Cork shopping that day. They put their heads together, and the result was this magnificent Waterford cut-glass cake stand, with which I was thrilled. Over the years, this cake stand became the bearer of christening cakes, Holy Communion cakes and birthday cakes. Now it was to be the bearer of a royal candle. I retrieved it from the sideboard, gave it a quick wash and polished it until it shone. It would do your heart good simply to look at it.

  In recent times, beautiful cut crystal and fine bone china have gone out of fashion. But now they are making a comeback, as shown by the rise in popularity of tasteful tea rooms serving their customers afternoon tea in fine bone-china cups. Beautiful creations will always make a comeback.

  I carried my cake stand to the hall and placed it carefully on the old oak table where the Christmas candle normally stood. Bought years ago in a junk shop, for the princely sum of fourteen pounds, this table had been dirty and scruffy with a wobbly leg. It had cleaned up and restored well. Collectors never forget the price of a duck that turns out to become a swan; we tend to forget the ducks that continue to be lame ducks.

  Then I brought my candle lovingly from Mrs C’s table and placed it on the crystal where it reflected in its
polished surface. I stood back to appraise the situation and decided that there was something missing. The table was not dancing with the crystal and candle. The whole thing was not in harmony. It needed more.

  In the storeroom off my kitchen is Aunty Peg’s linen press, which is packed with a huge variety of table linens and cloths of all variety and sizes. Aunty Peg loved collecting good table linen, and in me she had a willing accomplice. Over the years I have added to her collection, and now her press is bulging with all kinds of everything, which every few years takes a full day to sort out and tidy. When it is done I glow with a sense of achievement and satisfaction. It is a few years now since I enjoyed that glow. So it took a good root through the shelves to find what I was looking for.

  Years ago, at a Christmas market in Prague, I bought a cloth. The rough feel of the unbleached linen and the cream fringing against a background of hand-embroidered red and gold holly wreaths was irresistible. It was fit for a royal table. My dull, solid little oak table disappeared beneath it and was transformed. On the cloth went the crystal and the crimson candle. These three belonged together.

  Out in my back porch, together with my own holly, was red berry holly that a friend had brought me from the Black Valley. Something you get as a gift is somehow very special, and there is nothing to compare with the dark green glossy leaves of our native holly. When it decides to bear berries, they glow against the dark background. I gathered some of the red berries and laid them around the candle on the crystal stand, where they were reflected, connecting the candle with the wreaths on the cloth. My royal candle was suitably ensconced. It was ready and waiting for Christmas.