Memories about the Christmas time are always very personal to us all, with thoughts reaching out to family members, friends and events related to the observance of this most family oriented, child focussed feast-time celebration.
In the countryside, of South Donegal, where we grew up, in the 1960‘s, the preparations, which were part of our lives at that time, were substantially different to those required for children nowadays.
This included Santy’s letters, written, often rewritten, with our requests for cowboy gear or trucks for the boys and dolls or prams for the girls, then the letters tucked into their envelopes, addressed to Santy and tucked into a ledge over the open hearth fire.
Our dream Christmas, was always a white one, however, because of the Irish climate, snow was and still is, not very common, with a white Christmas nearly as rare as unicorn’s teeth.
It was handed down and accepted by us, that because we were so far from many other parts of the world, that Santy’s timetable, just about allowed him, to manage to get to us on his way home after travelling the globe.
In fact, this meant that it was only, when we were all in attendance, at early morning Mass that he twinkled his way into each of our homes, depositing the items we had especially written to him about, only a few eternal weeks before.
One special Christmas, comes to mind. As is usual, for children all over the world on Christmas morning, we awoke early and immediately noticed how much brighter everything was, on that particular morning.
Looking out, we saw that it snowed as we lay sleeping and dreaming only a short while beforehand.
It seemed like every tree, every branch, every twig each had its own share of crisp, virgin snow.
Our household, like most others was fairly strict in some senses and insisting on going out to play was not entertained, especially, while preparations for morning Mass were put in place.
Best clothes and shoes or boots were quickly put on, fasting was still part of the programme at the time so our thoughts flickered between a special breakfast when we returned and our long awaited visitor’s gifts.
Neighbouring families, were already assembling on the road near our house, in the days before multiple car ownership, all walking the last half mile or so to the chapel together, some of our school-friends attached, each under close supervision as well,
There were 7 or 8 under 10’s there, all subject to the tension, rising to bursting at the seams, with the excitement of the snow and the expected surprises awaiting us on our return.
Our footsteps crunched along the road in the powdery snow up to our ankles, our breaths mushroomed upwards in the frosty air, the occasional adult, still hurrying along the road after finishing some last minute things.
Suddenly, the world stood still.
There, in the snow right in front of us, for all to see, was a long trail of small cloven hoofed footprints leading off into the distance before us.
When exactly, they had suddenly appeared, no one could tell, no one cared, in that moment, because as one, to each of us children, we knew exactly what had created them.
In the twinkling of an eye, just as we had always been told, Santy had come and gone north again, leaving our presents and a few unknowns in each of our homes.
The proof, sculpted into the perfect snow at our feet, meant whatever control had existed up to then, evaporated like steam, in the explosive jubilation of our discovery.
Dancing, shouting, scanning the skies, screaming the news to anyone yet to see, while the adults smiled, trying not to act surprised.
We were quite sophisticated kids, especially in our own minds, we knew what all this meant, even if the adults knew no better, trying to regain control of our junior rebellion.
That took a while but no matter what was said, about animals breaking out in the night, with not an animal in sight, we knew, yes, we knew, what had really created those footprints in the snow.
Looking back, I can still remember the hills and fields, we all knew by name, covered with snow, and the trail which disappeared into thin air, only a short distance further along that country road.
For the life of me, I cannot remember what presents any of us got that year, or how much we played in the snow once the presents were opened or even how long the snow lasted.
This, I do know, there are now 7 or 8 adults, scattered to the four corners of Ireland and a few to the four corners of the world as well, that, any of whom, with little prompting, could still remember those footprints in the snow on that special Christmas morning in Donegal.
