Beithilín, a Crib; máinséar, manger; teach aíochta, an Inn; Teaghlach Naofa, the Holy Family; girseacha, young girls; guinnín, a little gun; sa bhundlaoi, in the eave of the house; creimthe, picked; cálóga bána, white flakes (of snow)

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Merry Christmas to You All

Peadar Bairéad

Happy Christmas All

Yes, that time of year has come around to us again, that time that gives us all a chance to show peace and goodwill to the whole wide world outside of ourselves. Yes, and that time also gives us a chance to walk back down memory lane, to those days long ago when we stood looking in wonder at the beautiful Crib, arranged nicely and peacefully in the Church. And further back still, to the first Manger in Royal Bethlehem, in the Holy Land itself, at the beginning of the era of Christianity, when Jesus was born in the Stable because there was no place to be found for his mother, Mary, or for Joseph in the town’s Inn that holy night.

Christmas Night

Féach mar a chuir an file, Máire Mhac an tSaoi, é, ina dán “Oíche Nollag”, agus í ag rá go raibh dídean le fáil ag lucht an airgid sa Teach Aíochta céanna sin, an oíche úd, ach gur fágadh an an Mhaighdean is a céile, gan bheith istigh le fáil acu, ach amháin i seanstáblán na mbeithíoch….

The lights were all lighting in that little hostel,

There were generous servings of victuals and wine,

For merchants of silk, for merchants of woollens,

But Jesus will lie in this household tonight.

Tá an file ag tagairt don nós a bhí beo, i measc Gael, an tráth úd, go mbíodh an Teaghlach Naofa ag fánaíocht timpeall an oíche sin, agus iad ag iarraidh bheith istigh a fháil i dteach eicínt, agus b’in an fáth a d’fhágtaí an doras ar leathadh, coinneall na Nollag ar lasadh, agus áit socraithe réidh dóibh ag an mbord, ag súil go dtiocfaidís ar chuairt chucu, an oíche bheannaithe sin. Féach arís mar a chuireann Máire Mhac an tSaoi é, i véarsa eile, sa dán céanna sin…..

Leave all the doors wide open before her,

The Virgin who’ll come with the child on her breast,

Grant that you’ll stop here tonight, Holy Mary,

That Jesus a while in this household may rest.

There is no doubt in the world, but that the poet managed to understand and express the attitude and beliefs of the common people, in the verses of that beautiful poem, "Oíche Nollag".

A Vigil kept

It was not the custom of the people in the west to go overboard that night with food or drink, for they were waiting for the arrival of the Holy Family to visit them. They would have an ordinary supper—potatoes and fish, perhaps, or something of that sort—because they wouldn't have the big Christmas dinner to prepare until the following morning, that is, after Mass. That morning, every priest had the custom of saying three Masses, and because of that, they would start quite early in the morning, at half-past eight perhaps. Those people would be home again around ten o'clock, and then they would start preparing the dinner. Yes, upon my soul, and consider that they didn't have modern cooking appliances at that time—indeed they did not! They had nothing but the three-legged pot-oven and a pot, and they had to work those implements on the open fire. A big difference between yesterday and today!

How about toys then?

What about the boy and girls then?

Cuirfidh mé geall, nach dtógfadh sé i bhfad orthu a gcuid féiríní Nollag a oscailt, nó ní thógfadh sé beirt, len iad a luchtú ar chairt! Tá mé ag caint faoi mo dhúiche fhéin, thiar in Iorras, i gContae Mhaigh Eo, dár ndóigh, agus ní bhíodh le fáil ag na gasúir ach guinnín, b’fhéidir, agus gluaisteáinín, nó a leithéid, sea, agus glac milseán agus torthaí, leis an stoca a líonadh. Agus céard faoi na girseacha? Bhuel, de ghnáth bhíodh bábóga le fáil acusan, agus milseáin agus torthaí freisin, b’fhéidir. Chaitheadh muid seal ag súgradh leis na féiríní Nollag sin, agus ansin, théadh cuid againn amach ar thóir an dreoilín, nó bhíodh muid ag fáil réidh do Lá an Dreoilín, nó b’in an lá i ndiaidh Lae Nollag. Mura n-éireodh linn teacht ar dhreoilín an lá sin, agus geallaimse dhuit é, go mbíodh a fhios ag na dreoilíní céanna sin go raibh muidinne ar a dtóir an lá áirithe sin, nó ghlanaidís leo as ár mbealach go breá luath an mhaidin sin. Bhuel, mura n-éireodh linn teacht ar dhuine acu, séard a dhéanfadh muid ansin, nó fanacht go titim na hoíche, agus ansin, ní bhíodh sé ró-dheacair teacht ar ghealbhan codlatach sa bhundlaoi, agus dhéanfadh seisean chúis dúinn, an lá dár gcionn, ach gan ligint d’éinne teacht ró-chóngarach don éinín a bhí clúdaithe go maith i gcás againn!

Memories

There is no doubt in the world, but that a flood of memories returns to me, at this time of year, as I go back that distressing, complicated, interesting, memory lane. Here is how I spoke about some of those thoughts, in a poem I composed myself last year:

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A treasure of accumulated memories

In the cupboard of bundled memories,

Going out with a Wren, early Mass,

Angels and Shepherds visiting

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Sharing nice things generously,

Roasting delicious foods,

Christmas treats given with heart,

And Jesus’ birthday being celebrated.

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They Chose a Goose.

Ní turcaí a bhíodh á róstadh acu don ócáid, an tráth úd, níorbh ea mh’anam, ach gé. Sea, Gé bhreá, phlucach, Gaelach, don Nollaig, agus nach muid a bhaineadh súlach agus toit as an ngé bhocht chéanna sin, agus ar deireadh thiar, nuair a bhíodh a cnámha creimthe go cliste, cúramach, againne, ní chaithimis na cnámha céanna uainn go fánach, ach oiread, ní chaitheadh muis! mar is amhlaidh a bhíodh tóir an domhain againn ar chnámha móra na sciathán, nó trína ngearradh go cúramach, d’fhéadfadh muid guinníní gé a dhéanamh astu, agus ansin, ní bhíodh uainn ach moilín beag adhmaid a raghadh trí chroí na cnáimhe sin, agus fata, le tosú ag scaoileadh urchair le chuile dhuine thart ar fud an tí. Nach againn a bhíodh an spórt! Cuirfidh mé geall, go mbainfeadh muid an oiread spóirt as na guinníní gé céanna sin, is a bhaineann gasúir an lae inniu as a gcuid Play Stations agus eile! Sea, mór idir inné agus inniu.

But to put a fitting end to this week's piece, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to wish a happy and prosperous Christmas to every one of my readers, and may every one of you be seven times better a year from tonight. And yes, may we be alive at this time again.

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Birth in the Stable

The Christmas season is upon us,

And white snowflakes coming down

Like a bright, holy, shining cloak,

Hiding grime and dirt for us.

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But inside my heart, with enthusiasm,

I will prepare a manger, with effort,

and I will clear away the grime of the years

From the old stable of my hard soul

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The Christmas season is upon us,

And the holy, Heavenly Infant, coming down

Is washing, and saving the Clan of Eve,

And hiding sin and trouble for us.