by Julie Breathnach-Banwait
Tá cáca na Nollag lom leagtha ar bhord i seomra fuar ó mhí na Samhna, is púir fuisce ag éirí as. Maisíonn mo dheirfiúr é le craiceann siúcra bán, á phlástráil le scian maol leathan. Síneann sí an babhla chugam chun é a ghlanadh le barr mo mhéara is mé ag fanacht lena taobh go foighneach is uisce ó m’fhiacla. Sánn muid crainn glasa plaisteach sa siúcra agus dhá phíosa cuileann le sméara dearga.
Siúlann muid ag an Aifreann i ndubh na hoíche, i gceo tuirse, i gcótaí dufal, i mbróga leathair, fuacht na hoíche á mbagairt is an ghaoth nimhneach ón bhfarraige ag deargadh na leicne. Tá réalta ag damhsa is ag scinneadh ar nós urchair go bun spéire i bhfad uaim. Cloisim gach coisméig is scuabadh ár gcosa le gach méanfach sa dorchadas.
Tá siad uilig amuigh, na comharsan, doirtithe amach ón tine ina gcótaí troma is caipíní dorcha, ag cruinniú i séipéal a shuíonn ar bharr cnoic, is na tithe beaga lasta le coinnle na Nollag ina suí ar sil na fuinneoige. Beannaíonn m’uncail dúinn, in muid ar ár nglúine i suíochán adhmaid, is an bháisteach ag réabadh taobh amuigh, ag pónáil in aghaidh na díona, í ag gíoscán faoi mheáchan an díle. Síntear coinnle bheaga chugainn.
Roinneann muid an lasair lena gcomharsan gan focal eadrainn. Coinníonn mé géar shiúil ar an gcoinneal mar a deir mo mháthair liom, is an chéir ag sileadh síos m’ordóg. Múnlaíonn mé patrún le mo mhéara inti. Cuirim mo mhéara tríd an lasair arís is arís mar dhúshlán go n-airím ga an dó. Déantar machnamh ar an gcré is paidir éigin dár dTiarna a cheapaim, á mholadh. Tá an cóir ag ceiliúradh an bhreith, is scéalta á roinnt faoi shlánaíocht, buíochas, Nazareth, Bethlehem, asal sa stábla.
Tá fear ar phuilpéad ag seamsánacht faona anáil faoin slánaitheoir is pléascann an cór i gcantaireacht taréis an soiscéal. Tá cléirigh ar a chlé ag méanfach is ag clingeadh cloigíní beaga ag faire ar gach focal ó fhear na dteagasc. Deirtear go bhfuil gaolta éigin nach naithím tagtha abhaile as Meiriceá, deirtear go mbeimid á gcuairt, táim drogallach is caidéiseach. Glacann m’athair gloine bhídeach póirt nuair a thagann sé arais. Mar gheall ar an bhfuacht a deir sé.
Tá mainséar sa scoil, sa seomra láir, curtha le chéile ag rang a sé, is nuair a théim amach feicim leanbh beag i mbosca cairtchláir, le aghaidh fir, is dhá bheithíoch lena thais ag gliúcach isteach sa mbosca go fiosrach. I bhfoscadh faoi chrann mór atá sé, is pluid bheag trasna a chliabhrach, ina luí ar leaba tuí. Canann muid Don oíche úd i mBeithil agus An chéad Noel roimh am lóin gach lá, mar bhuíochas, a mhíníonn an múinteoir. Maisíonn muid cártaí le crainn mhóra glasa, tinsil, dathanna óra, boscaí móra le ribíní casta thart orthu, réinfhia le sróna móra dearga, dreoilíní amú sa sneachta, Daidí na Nollag, coillte lom, sneachta is sioc ar dhuilleoga, réalta mhóra buí ag soilsiú spéir dhubh. An Mhaighdean Mhuire lena clóca gorm ag faire ar a páiste nua-bheirthe. Na trí Ríthe úd lena mboscaí gleoite. Réitíonn muid stocaí le cur ag bun na leapan.
Is Lá Nollag linn, tá an dinnéar á réiteach, turcaí móra á stuáil is curtha sa sornóg ó thús maidine. Tá boladh an róstadh ag scagthach thríd an teach, mo tharraingt ón leaba. Tá mo mháthair ag scamhadh prátaí ó phota millteanach is mo dheirfiúr á mbrú le díograis. D’fhág Daidí na Nollag beart mór dom ag bun na leapan, leabhair nua, pinn dathannach. Cuirim ceist mar gheall ar scríobh mo dheirfiúr ar an gclúdach. Deireann m’athair linn an teilifís a ísliú is mé féin agus mo dheirfiúr ag caoineadh faoi fhia a chaill a mháthair is Lassie imithe amú arís. Tógann mo mháthair amach na soithí dathannacha á leagan ar an mbord, mo dheirfiúr sna sála uirthi á n-eagrú mar phatrún trasna brat an bhoird. Leagtar síos naipcíní dearga agus gréithe airgid leis na plátaí ornáideacha. Ardaítear gloiní throma criostal ón seilf is leagtar lena dtaobh iad. Tá coirc á mealladh as buidéil fíona is deochanna doirtithe don dream fásta.
Líonann Mam gach pláta le cnoic bia go bhfuil siad ag dul thar moill, deireann m’athair go bhfuil iomarca aige is é ag breathnú ar mo mháthair ag dáileadh is ag roinnt. Glanann sé a phláta is tugtar athlíonadh do gan suntas dá chlamhsán. Is an dinnéar thart, osclaítear boscaí seacláide is déantar tine mhór sa seomra suite. Suíonn m’athair le taobh na tine, spéaclaí ar bharr a shrón is an gunna stiúrtha úd ina ghlac, ag scinneadh ó RTÉ a haon go RTÉ a dó ar thóir an nuacht. Dáileann mo mháthair tae arís agus geampaí cáca Nollag. Cuireann sí an méid atá fágtha i mbosca stáin, á shábháil a deir sí go barainneach go Lá Nollag bheag mar go mb’fhéidir go dtiocfadh na comharsan ar cuairt. Ithim an siúcra ó bharr an cháca is sínim an chuid eile ag Deaid. Déireann sé go bhfuil sé rómhilis dhosán is nár cheart dó a bheith ag ithe cácaí mar sin is é ag alpach gach grábhóg go hamplach le sásamh. Déanann mo mháthair tagairt dá shláinte. Aontaíonn sé léi. Osclaíonn sé bosca éile Roses.
Músclaíonn ceol ar an tairseach muid ar maidin. Tá Lá an Dreoilín linn. Tá gasúir éigin ag an doras le feadóga stáin is orgáin béil, i ngiobail, le hataí móra is bróga báistí. Séideann siad cúpla port siógach ar an tairseach is líonann mo mháthair a nglaic le sóinseáil airgid is milseáin má tá cuma an ocrais orthu. Ritheann siad leo sásta lena mbrabús is lán a mbéil. Déanaim clamhsán is deireann mo mháthair go bhfuilimse ró óg le bheith ag imeacht leis an dreoilín. Tá back to school bargains á ghleáradh ó RTÉ a haon. Tá na tithe beaga ar an mbealach go Gaillimh lasta suas le soilse ag preabadh agus ag damhsa, ag cur dath is beochan i ndorchadas Chonamara i mí na Nollag, á dhúiseacht ag deireadh na bliana sula dtabharfar aghaidh ar cheiliúradh oíche chinn bhliana agus cruas na míosa romhainn.
©Julie Breathnach-Banwait
Mí na Samhna 2022
Julie lives in Perth. She is an Irish language poet whose books have been reviewed in Tinteán. The latest https://tintean.org.au/2022/08/10/ar-thoir-gach-ni-in-search-of-everything/. Her article on why she writes in Irish has been one of our most frequently read articles in recent years. See https://tintean.org.au/2021/08/10/why-do-you-write-in-irish/
*Christmas in Connemara (translation of the above by Dymphna Lonergan)
The unadorned Christmas cake has been laid on a table in a cold room since November; it’s oozing whiskey. My sister decorates it with white icing, plastering it with a broad, blunt knife. She holds out the bowl for me to clean with my fingertips as I wait patiently by her side, my teeth watering. We stick green plastic trees in the icing and two pieces of holly with red berries.
We walk to Mass in the black of night, in a fog of fatigue, in duffle coats, in leather shoes, menaced by the cold of the night, and the bitter wind from the sea reddening our cheeks. A star is dancing and then shooting like a bullet to the horizon far from me. I hear every squeak and sweep of our feet with every yawn in the dark.
They are all outside, the neighbours, poured out from the fire in their heavy coats and dark caps, meeting in a church that sits on top of a hill; and the little houses are lit with Christmas candles sitting on the windowsills. My uncle greets us, kneeling in a wooden seat, while the rain pours down outside, pounding against the roof, shaking under the weight of the deluge. Small candles are extended to us.
We share the flame with our neighbour without a word between us. I keep an eye on the candle as my mother tells me, the wax running down my thumb. I mould a pattern with my fingers in it. I put my fingers through the flame again and again as a challenge to feel the burning heat. There are reflections, and some prayer to our Lord, I think, praising Him. The choir is celebrating the birth, stories are being shared about salvation, gratitude, Nazareth, Bethlehem, a donkey in the stable.
There is a man in a pulpit droning on under his breath about the Saviour, and the choir bursts into song after the gospel. Clerics to his left are yawning and ringing small bells, attentive to every word from the preacher man. I hear that some relatives that I do not know have come home from America; they say that we will be visiting them; I am apprehensive and guarded. My father takes a small glass of port when he comes back. Because of the cold he says.
It’s Christmas Day; dinner is being prepared; a big turkey has been stuffed and put in the oven since early morning. The smell of roasting wafts through the house, dragging me from bed. My mother is emptying potatoes from a huge pot and my sister is crushing them with enthusiasm. Santa left a big parcel for me at the foot of the bed, new books, coloured pens. I question my sister’s writing on the cover. My father tells us to turn down the TV and me and my sister cry about a deer that lost its mother and Lassie is lost again. My mother takes out the coloured dishes laying them on the table, my sister on her tippy toes arranging them as a pattern across the table cloth. Red napkins and silverware are laid down with the ornate plates. Heavy crystal glasses are lifted from the shelf and placed beside them. Corks are being pulled from bottles of wine and drinks poured for adults.
Mum fills each plate with mountains of food as if it is about to run out; my dad says he’s had too much as he watches my mum serving and distributing. He clears his plate and is refilled, no notice taken of his protest. Dinner is over, boxes of chocolate are opened and a big fire is made in the sitting room. My father sits by the fire, glasses on top of his nose and that steering gun in his hand, flicking from RTÉ One to RTÉ Two in search of the news. My mother distributes tea again and hunks of Christmas cake. She puts what’s left in a tin box, saving it she says for Little Christmas Day because the neighbours might come to visit. I eat the icing from the top of the cake and hand the rest to Dad. He says it’s too sweet for him, and he shouldn’t be eating cakes, as he swallows each morsel greedily and with relish. My mother refers to his health. He agrees with her. He opens another box of Roses.
Music on the doorstep wakes us up in the morning. It’s Wren Day. There are raggedy lads in big hats and rain boots at the door with tin whistles and mouth organs. They play a few fairy-like tunes on the doorstep and my mother fills their hands with coins, and sweets if they look hungry. They run off happy with their profits and their mouths full. I start to whine, and my mother says I’m too young to be going out with the wrenboys.
RTÉ One is banging on about back to school bargains. The small houses on the way to Galway are lit up with twinkling and dancing lights, adding colour and animation to the darkness of Connemara in December, an awaking at the end of the year before the New Year’s Eve celebrations and the harshness of the month to come.
Julie lives in Perth. She is an Irish language poet whose books have been reviewed in Tinteán .
Tinteán 