A very Happy New Year to all the wonderful readers of The Silver Voice from Ireland Blog. I would like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one who has visited my blog during 2013. Athbhliain faoi Mhaise daoibh to léir! May 2014 be all that you need it to be!
Monthly Archives: December 2013
The most reprinted newspaper editorial of all time was published in the The New York Sun in 1897, and was the work of Francis Pharcellus Church. Each Christmas I seek out this editorial to read, for it is a reminder of the true spirit of Christmas to all of us former children who no longer write letters to Santa. Which one of us will ever forget the magic of waking to find that Santa had called while we slept, and left unimaginable treasures by our beds,or under the tree, or in the living room? – Perhaps a train set, perhaps a spinning top, perhaps a doll or a book or an orange or a meccano set.Today as my sister and I talked about this we remembered that Santa left one toy and a book or jigsaw for the 6 of us – things that stood out were : a big humming spinning top, a black push along dog on 4 wheels, a three-note melodeon, my brother’s train set, a doll that cried, a big doll whose arms and legs were joined up by elastic, a jigsaw, a red tin pedal operated car and a big red three-wheeled tricycle.
As we grow older the magic disappears, but it is good to remind ourselves that it is still there in the form of joy and romance and kindness and friendship, not to mention in the faces of enthralled and delighted children at Christmastime. So here it is once again – the story of 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon, who wrote to the New York Sun newspaper in September 1897, to ask Does Santa Exist? Virginia’s family read this newspaper and set great store by it as an authority on many things. The reply to her letter has stood the test of time.
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Francis Church a journalist, was asked to reply and his response has appeared in many publications, in films, on stamps, on posters in about a dozen languages for over a century. His response was :
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
The editorial was something of a sensation and the New York Sun reprinted it every year for over 50 years until the newspaper closed down in 1949.
In Ireland, as well as in many other countries across the world children will write letters to their cultural Santa as they have done for decades and they will continue to do for generations to come and he will continue to make glad the heart not only the heart of childhood, but the hearts of children of all ages. Merry Christmas!
Older than the Pyramids in Egypt and older than Stonehenge, Newgrange is the jewel in the crown of ancient sites in Ireland. Engineered about 3,000 B.C. Newgrange is an enormous mound that covers an area of about an acre. Constructed by some of earth’s earliest farming communities in the Boyne Valley, Newgrange, and similar mounds at Knowth and Dowth are a UNESCO designated World Heritage Site. Originally thought to be a burial mound, Newgrange may have been an ancient temple. It is famed for the fact that for a few days around the time of the at the Winter Solstice, the long passage to the interior is lit by the rising sun. The exact date and time of the Winter Solstice varies slightly from year to year. In Ireland in 2013 it will occur today( 21, December 2013) at precisely 17:11 p.m.
Newgrange was engineered so that the narrow shaft of light from the rising sun at the solstice would enter a narrow passage way and gradually lengthen and broaden so that a chamber , some 19 metres from the doorway would become fully lit. The phenomenon lasts for about 17 minutes.
While the Irish weather with cloudy conditions is not always conducive to the witnessing of this phenomenon, today it happened and for the first time since 2007 when those lucky persons present in the chamber saw this wonderful spectacle. There is an image of this morning’s event from The Irish Times, here.
Newgrange is part of a series of mounds on a bend of the River Boyne in County Meath, Ireland. Access throughout the year is via the Brú na Boinne visitor centre. It is a magnificent attraction, often overlooked by visitors to these shores but well worth a visit.
Further information: World Heritage Ireland Brú na Boinne
Christmas! A perfect celebration for those of us in the northern hemisphere, living in the dark days of winter, with long nights and short days, cool and often freezing weather. Some of us resist the tinsel and glitter and hype for as long as we can, but in the last weeks before the big day we too must succumb to the inevitability of it. Last minute cards, last minute Christmas trees, house decorations and gift purchases all add to the excitement!
In December 2012 I made this post about Christmas in our home which I am reposting here as it epitomizes all that is Christmas, past and present. I hope you enjoy it!
‘There’s something about Christmas. There’s something about it that creeps inside and finds the child in you.’ These are the opening words of the magical Barry’s Tea ‘Train’ radio commercial. It is back on the airwaves so Christmas must be near! You can listen to it here.
Christmas in our Donegal home almost 60 years ago is a world away from Christmas in the early 21st Century. My mother used to begin the Christmas baking in late October when she made two rich fruit cakes. The whole process seemed to take days as she assembled sultanas, raisins and currants, chopped the mixed peel and the glace cherries, soaked whole almonds in boiling water so the skins would slip off, then chopped them finely. This scrumptious mixture was placed in a huge basin, doused in whiskey and covered with a clean cloth to soak overnight. During the evening the cloth was lifted when there was no adult in sight, so we could inhale the beautiful aroma of liquor and fruit. Tins were lined first with buttered greaseproof and then buttered brown paper – an art in itself, akin to Origami as it took a lot of expertise to line a round tin!
The following day the serious business of baking took place; flour and raising agent were sieved; the exotic mixed spice, nutmegs, cinnamon, ginger and mace were measured out; eggs were beaten, butter was softened and black treacle was measured out of the tin. An argument would then ensue as to who would get to lick the sticky black syrup from the spoon. This entire process took some hours as there was nothing mechanical in my mother’s kitchen — only a wooden spoon and an egg whisk with a wheel on the side. After all the beating, folding and mixing the tins were filled. We got to clean out every last bit of the mixture that still clung to the sides of the big cream coloured baking bowl, then we were banished from the kitchen and had to whisper for the rest of the day. Any loud noise or banging door might result in the cakes ‘sinking’! A good cook’s worst nightmare!
The following day the cooled cakes were stripped of the paper, pricked all over with a knitting needle,’fed’ with whiskey and placed in an airtight tin. Over the following weeks we had a weekly ritual of ‘feeding the cakes’ and replacing the greaseproof paper!
Similar preparation of fruit took place some weeks later when the Christmas puddings were made. A stale loaf was laboriously made into breadcrumbs. A bottle of stout was added to the mixture which made mixing easier for smaller people and we all ‘had a go’. The well-stirred mixture was placed on double layers of large squares of cotton – old sheets made excellent pudding cloths- the corners were gathered up and tied securely for boiling, resulting in a beautiful round pudding! Christmas was forgotten about then until about a week before whenthe Yule Log was baked as were my mother’s speciality – ‘Snowballs’. These were rounded balls of cake mixture, baked, then covered in jam and rolled in shredded coconut – they always looked wonderfully tempting! The two rich fruit cakes were iced (two cakes as my younger brother had a birthday on Christmas Day and he was the only member of the family to have a birthday cake) and decorated. Then there was the marzipan to make – we smaller ones could not help with this as it was a very stiff mixture of ground almonds and sugars, but it looked lovely when done! About three days before Christmas we had the Royal Icing that was spread all over the marzipan-ed cakes and we enjoyed placing lovely little silver balls and little snowmen and tiny Christmas trees into the icing. The Birthday cake usually had less seasonal characters stuck into the royal icing, but always had NOEL piped o the surface, for that is my brother’s name .
Some days before Christmas the turkey arrived – alive. It had to be dispatched and hung for several days then ‘cleaned’. Our next door neighbour Katie Ward did the plucking and it was great to watch her do it as she expertly pulled out all the feathers and then singed the skin with a taper to get rid of the very last signs of a feather. On one occasion, when I was quite small I was given the job of carrying the turkey to her house. Carrying it by the legs with the long neck and head trailing down, wings flapped open, I was followed by a dog who wanted to eat it. He got hold of the head as I went in the gate. I climbed onto the wall and tried to hold the turkey up high so the dog could not reach my precious cargo. I was rescued when my roars for help were heard!
Excitement was now really building and we knew it was close when a strangely costumed man with face covered would burst into our kitchen (front doors were always open) and frighten the lives out of us. He was closely followed by a troupe of Mummers all well disguised, who rhymed their way through a performance in which there was a narrator, two bragging men who took part in a fight and various other characters. One of the protagonists dies as a result of having a sword plunged into him, but is revived by a Doctor who demands money. Most of the characters are long forgotten , but I do recall a few. There was Belzebub) and there was Jack Straw – ‘Here come I, Jack Straw, Such a man you never saw! and my favourite ‘Here comes I, Wee Divil Doubt, The biggest wee divil that ever came out’
Also in the days just before Christmas Carol Singers would arrive. They stopped outside the door, sang a few carols and hoped they might get a few pence in appreciation..they usually did!
Christmas Eve was a busy day – my father would bring home a Christmas tree that would be put up in the upstairs sitting- room and decorated with tinsel strips and tinsel ornaments. He also brought lots of berried holly and sprigs would be pushed in behind hanging pictures in every room. Paper chain decorations were hung from the ceiling in the kitchen. Stuffing for the turkey(or goose) would be made to be ready for Chrsitmas morning – more grating of a stale loaf to make breadcrumbs! This delicious mix of breadcrumbs, onions, butter and parsley would have to be put out of reach so we would not eat it all up!
It was impossible to get to sleep with excitement and we were under constant threat if we did not go to sleep Santa wouldn’t come – this only added to the angst and ensured that we would not get to sleep for hours! But on Christmas morning we woke very early to find that Santa had in fact called and there would be something either on the bed or on the floor by the bed. A doll, a meccano set, a toy train, a button accordion, a jig saw – usually one toy each plus an annual or a book and a red net stocking filled with Cadbury’s chocolate bars. Bliss! The discovery was usually made in teh early hours, and needless to say we had to run and wake the entire house to announce what Santa had brought!
Then it was up for 8 o clock morning mass . We walked the mile or so to the Church and one of the loveliest memories I have is of a house at the end of the village street with a tall candle burning in every window – a magical site on a dark morning. And so to the chapel to hear the choir accompanied by the big organ give an almighty rendition of Adeste Fideles and Silent Night! It was Christmas!
Lunch was served about 1 o’clock and consisted of a delicious clear turkey soup made from the neck and giblets of the turkey, that had been bubbling away all morning on the Stanley No. 7 Range!
Our Christmas dinner was served much later at about 4.30 pm. On the menu was roast turkey (or goose) delicious parsley and onion bread stuffing, brussel sprouts (cooked in true Irish tradition for the best part of an hour, until they fell apart- not to be recommended in these modern ‘al-dente’ times!) and mashed potato. In north Donegal our name for the rather genteel sounding ‘mashed potato’ was in fact the very descriptive ‘poundies’! The entire meal was enveloped in my mother’s absolutely fabulously delicious white sauce, made with cornflour and milk and butter and parsley. After our meal we tucked into the Christmas pudding that was always served with hot milk poured over. Yummy!
My 3 year old brother blows out the candles on his birthday cake,Christmas Day 1955
A little while later it was time for cake – big triangles of beautifully moist cake topped with hard sweet icing were served – how we managed to eat it is a wonder in itself!
Tucking into the huge box of chocolates. The Christmas tree in the background is decorated with tinsel
Later in the evening we had a huge box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray chocolates. The big box had a beautiful scene on its padded cover – a snowy mountain scape or a Santa scene. What luxury!
The Christmas guests 1955, in front of the fire, with my father in the centre. I think that the man on the left may be O’Donnell, possibly John? and the man on the extreme right may be Ward from the south of the County.
On some Christmases we had guests at our table – people who worked locally perhaps and who could not get home to their families for Christmas for many reasons – they may have not had the transport and there was no public transport to speak of, and they may only have had one day off work, so would have had to make the round trip in one day.
My father, just a few days after his 34th birthday, enjoying and sharing the poetry of Robert Service on 25 December 1955.
After dinner my father would sit in his chair and recite from The Collected Works of Robert Service and transport us to the snow-covered wilderness of the Yukon. He laughed heartily as he read his two favourite poems: The Shooting of Dan McGrew (featuring a lady that’s known as Lou!) and The Cremation of Sam McGee