The rituals of Christmas

The rituals of Christmas

Sonia Kelly

The Christmas card ritual is the one that preoccupies me throughout Advent. I brood over the annual list of potential recipients and wonder if any can be eliminated. This is always a dicey move, though, as one invariably arrives from whoever was dropped. Certified death can be the only reason for removal. I say ‘certified’ because of the strange custom here of not sending any cards if someone in the family has died during the year. This can fool one and lead to serious embarrassment.
Anyway, having sorted out the list, it’s a question of buying the cards. For a long time I used to get a catalogue from UNICEF, but for some reason this ceased to come some years ago, so I transferred my allegiance to the Donkey Sanctuary and duly despatch an order … for what never turns out to be enough.
Then there’s the writing on them. I’m always impressed when I get cards with lots of writing inside and vow to myself to do the same. But when it comes to the point and I’m faced with a pile of blank surfaces, the resolve deserts me and I can think of nothing relevant to say.
Finally, they’re ready to post - but is it too early? And when is not too early? It’s tempting to send them off the moment they’re sealed and stamped, but that seems too eager, so they go into a basket, from which they look at me beseechingly every morning, anxious to be on their way. Maybe in a week, I tell them. And then - I get one myself, so I know it’s time.
Meanwhile, the tree has been prepared. This is not your conventional fir, but a dead, spindly thing with spiky branches, which has been propped up in the hall for the sole purpose of receiving my cards. They are attached to it as soon as they arrive with paper clips and clothes pegs and the whole ensemble looks really spectacular when complete.
There is, of course, the present-giving ritual, as well, and for me the planning began as soon as the last Christmas was over! All through the year, wherever I went, the idea of picking up suitable gifts for the coming Christmas was always at the back of my mind, and into the present-box would go the assortment. So, come prime time, all that remains is to pair them up with recipients. Quite a fun task, on the whole.
These days cooking is not part of my schedule, as I get invited to partake of the festivities laid on by members of the family and so far these occasions have all passed very pleasantly with none of the proverbial rows. Even when I was the hostess, I never once made either a cake, or a plum pudding as, mercifully, nobody under my jurisdiction liked them.
But what of the times before I became the Woman of the House? While writing this I tried to recall Christmases in pre-Cloona years and found that I couldn’t picture one single turkey fest. This was amazing, as most people have happy memories of cracker-laden tables, paper hats and holly.
These celebrations certainly must have happened, I reasoned. What about my four-year sojourn in the army for instance? Even in the trenches, the day is marked, but in my mind nothing surfaces. Nothing from school days, either, neither before nor after being orphaned, ie latterly with aunts and previously with parents in Connemara. Or further back as a virtual orphan with grandmother and nanny, while said parents were growing tea in Sri Lanka.
Not only can I recall no festive meals, but no presents, either. Just one Christmas memory from all those years: waking up one morning and seeing a tiny red teddy looking out from the stocking at the end of my bed. It was love at first sight. I called it Red Bollia after my godfather, Robbie.
And to this day my heart still gives a lurch at the sight of a red teddy.