Nollaig Na Mban (a repost).

 A repost of one of my most popular posts ever. I miss throwing these fabulous celebrations of women as my mother and grandmother did before me.

Of all the posts or articles I have ever written, this is the one that has gotten the most attention and the most links from other blogs and publications. I reprint it here in its entirety and I am so, so happy this beautiful custom is now being held all over the world and not just in Ireland. Emails from New York, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland and even Germany tell me it is being revitalized. Long may it continue!
----------------------------------------------------------------------


The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Nollaig Na Mban - "Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)


I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.


The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.


However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.


Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!


The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.


I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.


I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.


I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.


They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.


Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.


A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.


And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

Nollaig na mBan (Women's Christmas)

Nollaig na mBan (Women's Christmas) (Posted originally on January 6th, 2009)
The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and surely it deserves an annual audience. I have also performed it as a spoken piece. And hosted my own Nollaig na mBans and so has my sister and daughter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)

I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.

The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.

However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.

Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!

The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.

I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.

I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.

I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.

They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.

Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.

A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.

And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

Nollaig na mBan - Women's Christmas - a re-post.

Of all the posts or articles I have ever written, this is the one that has gotten the most attention and the most links from other blogs and publications. I reprint it here in its entirety and I am so, so happy this beautiful custom is now being held all over the world and not just in Ireland. Emails from New York, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland and even Germany tell me it is being revitalized. Long may it continue!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nollaig Na Mban - "Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)


I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.


The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.


However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.


Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!


The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.


I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.


I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.


I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.


They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.


Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.


A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.


And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

Imagine No Possessions

I think the most beautiful version of this song is by Eva Cassidy, who died far, far too young. Much like John Lennon himself. I've always found it somewhat ironic that John Lennon would write about no possessions, etc. when he was so incredibly wealthy. But there you go. We aspire. We all aspire.

Which is all in the way of saying that I am simplifying even more. I'm looking at the artifacts, the sentimental artifacts like china tea services (2 full sets) Waterford crystal tchotchkes - far too much, glasses, bowls, jugs. Platters, casseroles. You know. Glassware for vast parties of cocktailites with pinky fingers lifted. I've no idea why all this stuff surrounds me, still holding the spirits of long-dead aunts and grandparents and parents (the gifters). It seems like there was a world where all this was important but no more.

I take the bling out for an airing at my annual Nollaig Na mBan and then back it goes again into sundry cupboards to entertain the spiders for another year. It has to go. I'm a bit too distracted to start ebaying or kiijiiing, the bubble-wrapping and running to the post office would drive me mad.

So I wrap and box and wonder why the hell this stuff has trailed me around to so many houses over the years. Became this unwanted liability, this deadweight of possessions choking me.

I saw a post from a friend about lightening herself of possessions. 10 a day for 100 days. Just 10. And the thought appealed. And I've started to evaluate everything in my life.

And I know exactly where all the books are going.

Now the movies are nudder story.....but I may have the solution for that too.....

Any hints or thoughts will be greatly appreciated.

From the Hermitage.

We've been through a rough time on this island. Power outages. No water. The pump house frozen solid. Outrageous weather of lashings of snow and freezing rain completely outside of the norm for the bay. We usually are all green until February.

I am trapped in my house as the ice outside is severe. I laid down salt earlier, hardly a dent on the ice pack. First time ever I had to cancel my Nollaig Na mBan. But, time and again I realize I am never alone. Neighbours astonish me. Trucks arrive with hot (yes, hot!) water, trucks arrive to ferry me elsewhere for dinner, plumbing genius digs out pump house, runs heater into it, defrosts pump. Blessed water pours forth after another day. I genuflect to my wood stove every night during this. I cook on it and it heats the house.

Perversely, I am glad of these emergencies. They show my 'hood in its true colours, kind, caring, sharing. My chicken lady's husband delivered eggs today. Calls of care and compassion come in. A friend hands me an old fashioned phone to plug in. Those wireless fancy things do not work in a power outage but the old fashioned kind do. Note to self. And others out there.

And all systems are now go again. But I'm wondering about tomorrow, wondering whether I can leave here to head into my office up the road. I am wary of this ice. I have the utmost respect for it.

It looks so damn pretty but I know it hides nasty underneath.

To Soothe the Inner Beast

I know. Some of you haven't a clue what I'm talking about. I do have inner beasts. I would slay them with alcohol, food, whathaveyous. Sedate them into briefly napping. And then they would wake up and start to savage me from inside once again, they were insatiable. It was an endless cycle.

Not anymore. Not for today.

I felt them tickling my brain earlier today. I made a few phone-calls. Talked to others who like me, feel the dragons stretching and yawning. Not all the time. But especially this time of the year when the intensity of the Christmas is passed and there is a lull before New Year's and all is quiet. And then the slow stirring of the inner monsters begins.

I don't entertain them, these dragons followed closely by the Black Dog. I put plans in place: my annual Nollaig Na mBan for Sunday, January 5th. I reach out to others. I think: I need to paint this place. I think, like my father in his time: what can I truly look forward to this year? I think: my town has put me in such a position of trust, I will not let them down. I think:what a gloriously awesome day, can I put grippers on the soles of my boots and negotiate the now ice-layered snow. I think: what else can I do with turkey, what was that dish I would do with noodles? Tetrazini or something.

And I play Haydn's Maria Theresa Mass, see above. It soothes. Oh, how it soothes.

For a truly and thoroughly recovered former Catholic that is ironic, n'est pas?

What, Me Worry?

Worry was intertwined with my last post about growing old and the fear of it.

I would have said I didn't worry about stuff. But I do. I took a step backward and observed myself on Saturday:

Here goes:

Worries crawl in. I watched them carefully today and lo and behold they staggered down the hall, whispering to each other, and on into my office and proceeded to infest my brain.

I'll tell you what I worried about, even briefly, today (Saturday). Welcome to the inner workings of my brain:

First snowfall of the season, about 5cm.

Yer man's not coming by with the snowplow, look he just passed my driveway again and he never answers his phone and I need an ingredient for a recipe so I can't drive to the shop so my brunch will be destroyed tomorrow without this ingredient, how can I face my guests.

Worry lasted an hour. Yer man showed up and plowed. Face red.

Where, goddam it, is Leo, he's supposed to clear the pathways and next thing we won't be able to access the barn for the wood for the fire and the house will freeze with the cold and I'll have to cancel the brunch and maybe I should just sell up and leave and find a tiny apartment in St. John's and get a lot of cans and pasta in and hunker down for the winter as they don't plow their sidewalks, and oh gawd, they don't take dogs, how can I leave my dog?

Worry skulked in and out for another hour. Leo, meanwhile, behind my back, was sorting wood (old~new) in the barn and locating the snow shovel and then shovelled all pedestrian access to the doors on the property.

I should seal off the front door, the drafts can be bad, but it will take me hours, do I have the time, I've never done this before, make the time. OK.

Job took 5 minutes. Face still red.

I shouldn't have to fix the bloody chair (see above). Glueing chair legs is so complicated, plus it's an antique, I don't want to damage it. What happened to all those years you refinished antiques, huh? But I have to - I need the chair for the annual Nollaig Na mBan tomorrow. I've no choice. More hours out of my tight little life.

Job took 10 minutes. Looks great. See above. Face still red.

And I'll post about my Nollaig na mBan soonest. It was rather splendid even though I say so myself.

2013

Well, I get to use my avatar again. I rather like it. I made a card with a poem about it at one stage. More like a story poem. Sad it was, so I won't reprint it here on New Year's Eve.

Best times I had on past New Year Eves were the little dinner parties I'd throw for strays such as myself. We'd play music and talk the hind legs off donkeys while feasting on each others' potlucks. Best kind. Now I have my Nollaig na Mban which is next Sunday January 6th. So to run another stray dinner party would be too much for me, I'm afraid. Too much for most people.

I tried the dances and the fireworks (only good with kids in tow)and coupleystuffs. but now choose to spend it alone. Just being with myself. I'm never bored with her. And it's a relief to create that boundary and not bustle out to please others.

It was a good year for me, 2012. So many performances of my play including the run in St. John's, and the big trip to Ireland to present it to my people, family and friends. Everything about it took much of my time but it was all such fun. Even today the cast and I pinch ourselves and say: Did that really happen? Really? Wow!

And seeing my precious birth family and just hanging out, particularly with the newer members. Who remind us all of how precious our time here is.

And the Writer's Conference in October where I got all fired up again. And Grandgirl's annual trek out here where she got to spend a weekend with the cast and crew and see the play. And Daughter's trip out here last May along with one of my closest friends to see the St. John's performances. And two other trips by Daughter.

These in themselves are wonderful but I get the greatest pleasure from my loved ones partipating and taking such joy in sharing the experiences.

What do I wish for 2013 - it's not a very pleasant sounding year is it? I think the 13 throws me off. I'm staying in the moment even though all politicians have shown their true colours as never before.

Canada has been sold to China behind our backs. We have a First Nations Chief on hunger strike (Day 17,today I believe) at the base of our parliament buildings until the prime minister meets with her to discuss the trashing of our environment and the breaching of all native treaties. And on. Too many issues. We are all in oligarchies. Democracy has always been a dream.

We all need to fasten our seatbelts and as I said before: Plant. Shop locally. Turn off main stream media. They are bought and paid for by the very corporations that are hurting you in the name of obscene taxless profits. Stop subsidizing all of them!

And remember: if your grandparents didn't eat it, try not to!!

Athbhliain faoi mhaise dhuit! = Happy New Year!

Without you, this blog would only exist in a void. So I thank you all for your wonderful kindness, it's such a pleasure meeting such kindred spirits!

Nollaig Na Mban

A repost of one of my most popular posts ever. I miss throwing these fabulous celebrations of women as my mother and grandmother did before me.

Of all the posts or articles I have ever written, this is the one that has gotten the most attention and the most links from other blogs and publications. I reprint it here in its entirety and I am so, so happy this beautiful custom is now being held all over the world and not just in Ireland. Emails from New York, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland and even Germany tell me it is being revitalized. Long may it continue!
----------------------------------------------------------------------


The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Nollaig Na Mban - "Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)


I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.


The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.


However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.


Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!


The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.


I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.


I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.


I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.


They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.


Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.


A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.


And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

A New Pair of Glasses

It’s the little things, tiny things really, that tell me I’ve been accepted as a native rather than a CFA (come from away) in my community here in Newfoundland.

Today, a couple and I had been invited to another couple’s home for dinner - which is the midday meal here.

They tell me to drive to their place which is about halfway and they will drive the rest of the distance.

When I get into the back of their SUV, I find it is blanketed.

“Oh, they say, that’s for your dog, we thought you’d bring Ansa, we wanted her to feel at home in our car”.

We’re all on coffee and tea after we finish this fabulous meal of cod, potatoes, coleslaw and homemade carrot relish when the two women start teasing me about the china cups I’d used at my recent Nollaig na Mban and maybe I’d be getting too fancy now to use mugs. To much laughter, I gave as good as I got, saying I’d never be back again if I wasn’t served on the very best china.

All of this I observe through my new spectacles.

And I get a lump in my throat.

Nollaig Na Mban (again)

As Daughter and I attack the last load of fancy china and put away the rarely used silver serving spoons, I reflect on the privilege of being able to host a Women’s Christmas (aka Nollaig na Mban – written about previously in this list of posts) for the first time here in Newfoundland in my magical home by the sea. The oldest today was 87 and the youngest was 5. Apart from Daughter and Niece, the rest of the friends here were all relatively new to my life in chronology but long in shared tribal origins and in making room in each other’s hearts relatively late in life for new friendships. Living proof that it can be done.

There were 13 of us - never an unlucky number I say - in total, a bit of a squeeze around the long harvest table but we managed. We sipped from delicate china cups and ate many courses, salads, fruits, my Famous Strata, perogies, sausages, blueberry cobbler (I froze blueberries picked from the Barrens in September), Irish biscuits and cheeses, raisin scones, treacle scones and Irish soda bread with organic butter.

Great chat was generated, as only a gathering of disparate women can do, it was interesting watching the youngest and the eldest there bond so tightly even though they had not met before. So much in common, I would think!

I feel so blessed and so honoured that my home can be the scene of such warmth and camaraderie.

Thank you, to the spirits of Granny and Mum and my nine blood aunts for showing me the way!

It's a small world after all

I think I get it. I feel it happening. You know how the lives of older people appear to shrink down to a more manageable level? Not quite as bad as having a whole day revolve around a visit to a doctor or the next day to an oil change for a car – I’ve seen far, far too many old people do this. Almost to a comical level in some cases. Like not being able to go out to dinner on Wednesday because they have to pack for a trip leaving on Friday. Much too frequently. Spare me this as I age.

I mean in the broader sense. A global sense. I rail against the political shenanigans, the lies, the abuse of human rights, the outright thefts and predations of the theocorporatocracy, the smug satisfaction of the patriarchy. No more of this in the new year unless I feel my head exploding and I have a choice of venting here or dying pitifully in a state of apoplexy.

I resolve to write of the small, the meaningful.

Like today, sadly sans camera, I walk by the shore with the Wonder Dog and a recent storm has again shifted the landscape. I just love the power of the water, I have a marvellous up close and personal relationship with it here. A little bridge was wiped out a couple of years ago in a storm, so we couldn’t advance along this part of the shore at high tide. This latest storm has shoved the widened stream banks about 6 feet to the east against a very old wharf, narrowing the river bed to a jumpable level (even for this old geezer!).

Well, we were just delighted today. The other side of the stream is far more interesting as it has rabbits and hawks and the odd sea lion or otter. As a matter of fact, Ansa spotted a rabbit in a hawk’s mouth and went on chase, the rabbit was dropped, hawk flew away, Ansa was on the point of leaping on the rabbit herself (she is an amazing hunter, ask any shrew) when I called her. I was more than pleased when she returned immediately to me, foregoing the hunt. She has responded remarkably to all the training over the last few years and confirms yet again how super intelligent she is.

I anxiously await the arrival of my daughter tomorrow, Christmas Day. She comes here for 10 days while the grandgirl stays with her dad. We are going to get caught up, reading a lot in front of the fire and planning the annual Nollaig Na Mban do here on January 3rd.

The best of this lovely season to all of you out there and peace, seriously, on earth.

Nollaig na mBan (Women's Christmas)

The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience.
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"Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)


I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.


The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.


However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.


Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!


The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.


I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.


I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.


I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.


They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.


Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.


A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.


And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.