A magical Christmas story

It was a cold Christmas Eve in the West Roscommon countryside. There were flurries of wet snow, which blew down from points North.

We had been given an important job by Mammy, us lads. “Fill 10 bags of turf and leave them at the back door with a cover over them. That way we will have enough to keep the fire going if this snow gets bad.” Weather forecasts of that era did not come from an app on the phone, a person looked out and sniffed the wind to make an assessment of what weather was to come.

We duly filled the plastic fertiliser bags from the reek of turf in the garden, peeling off the rush covering and trying to get the best of the dry sods. The wet ones were left till the dry days of Spring would see them recycled.

As an 8-year-old I was trailing after my older brothers. I filled the bag with turf but was unable to heft it on my shoulders so I dragged it around and stacked it beside the others. The country house of the 1960s was everything a house now isn’t, cold damp and draughty, stone walls without insulation of any sort and plenty of crevasses and gaps under doors and windows allowed in the cold breezes of Winter. Family homes of that era were mostly thatched, had no running water or indoor sanitation. Indeed at that stage electricity was fairly new. It would still be a couple of years before the magic of television broadened our horizons.

Shivering I made my way inside to the huge open fireplace where flames (and the heat) roared up the unlined chimney. Mammy was getting the basics of daily living sorted before she started on the trimmings of the Christmas dinner. A black cast iron pot sat on its three stubby legs on the fire. A homemade cake of brown soda nestled under the lid which was covered in red coals.

Another pot of potatoes hung from the crane boiling slowly. Milk, butter and bacon from the farmyard provided our daily sustenance without a trip to any supermarket. There was no supermarket, Paddy Fitzmaurice’s travelling shop came without fail every Wednesday evening and the eggs we had gathered would be bartered for some of the items such as kerosene for lighting the often damp turf and flour for the daily bread baking.

In a corner over the fire was an old Pye radio with all those foreign names running along the tuning dial. In a few hours I would be glued to it to hear the deep voice of Santa Claus as he began his annual leaving of the North Pole. Mammy was at the table making a bowl of some type of trifle and I crept near looking at the Dream Topping and Hundreds and Thousands decorations with longing. She ruffled my hair …”Tomorrow ……It will be all the nicer then”.

She must have seen disappointment in my young eyes. “Did you know Daddy is coming home early from work today? And he is bringing a surprise home with him”.

“What, what Mammy, tell me ?” I was jumping with excitement.

“He will be here shortly ..go into the front room and watch for him. I think ye will all be surprised and happy with what he brings”.

She picked up a fat mallard duck that my father had shot. It would join the goose in the oven for the Christmas dinner the next day.

I raced to the front room and perched myself on the window board pushing the candle aside. It would be lit after dark and it was magical to look up the hill to see all the other houses lit up with the twinkling lights in the windows. Before long I saw Daddy’s bike appearing down the avenue and I raced to greet him as he swung his leg off and left the old Raleigh against the hedge. He wore his usual long grey belted overcoat and peeking out of it was a red puppy’s head with beautiful enquiring eyes. Daddy gently lifted the Red Setter pup out and left him on the ground and I bent down to fondle the silky ears. A moist tongue licked my hand and a great feeling of joy washed over me. I didn’t know it then but it heralded a lifelong love of dogs and an association with that most beautiful of hunting breeds the Red Setter.

“Now,” said Daddy “it’s your job to feed him and make sure his bed is changed in the cabin every day. And you have to bring him for walks. He will be full of energy.” He reached into his pocket and with a great show of secrecy he palmed me a boiled sweet.

I strutted proudly to find my brothers and told them of my new found responsibility. I also brought him to see my little baby sister, Maureen who had been born with special needs. She rocked contentedly in her cot. The pup sniffed everything with curiosity as he took in his new surroundings. He also had to be introduced to my Granny who lived in her own room with us and she lifted him up and regarded him. “He’s a cute boy, what will you call him?” Well on a day like that there was only one answer “Santa Claus” I shouted excitedly. She smiled and looked at my long suffering father . ”Well that’s a name that’s easy to remember!” Daddy, with some ingenuity, compromised and the setter became known as Sandy and had a long and happy life as part of the family.

I was engaged for the rest of the day with preparing a bed for our new arrival while Daddy and my brothers did the farmyard tasks. Ropes of hay had to be brought through mucky gaps to feed the stock and the couple of cows had to be milked. As the darkness fell we were back in the kitchen and seated at the wooden kitchen table where the freshly baked cake was sliced to go with boiled eggs and strong tea. As the Pye radio was switched on I sat with the now sleeping puppy in my arms and I stared into the flames licking up the chimney. I remember the feeling of security, contentment and excitement all mixed together in my young head. A magical time and a magical feeling. I hope every child gets to experience this even just once and that memory stays with them into the years ahead.