CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE VILLAGE OF THE MONKS

CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE VILLAGE OF THE MONKS

By Veronica Breen Hogle

“Wake up Vonnie! Von! It’s Christmas Eve mornin!” I hear the familiar voice of Mary
Kate Earls, my maternal grandmother, and the clacking of her black leather shoes on the bare
wood floor as she walks to the window. We sleep upstairs in a sparsely furnished bedroom with
two windows, and each of us has our own white iron bed with a feather mattress. I knuckle the
sleep out of my eyes and gaze at her frail body, dressed in black, her head nodding up and down.
She is squinting over at Mount Leinster through the rippled windowpane.

“There’s a heavy mist on the mountain. It’s too early ta tell if the fog ‘ill clear by
tonight,” Gran says, flinging her two braids over her shoulders. They rest like silver ropes down
her curved back to her waist, as she heads down the stairs.

I’m nine years old. I’ve been living with Gran since October because both my parents are
in a hospital to help them stop coughing and make them well. I’m the only child for miles around
and often shout outside,

“Who wants ta come out an’ play with me?” But the only voice that takes its time to
come back over the fields and gray rock walls,is mine. To keep me from being lonely, Gran takes
me with her everywhere. Tonight, we’re going to Christmas Eve Mass in the historic Cistercian
Abbey, in the Village of the Monks, also called Graiguenamanagh, in County Kilkenny. We’ll go
there in Farmer Carroll’s trap, drawn by a pony, a grand step up from our ass and cart. It’s the
first year I’m old enough to be out so late. My heart thumps thinking about it.

I dress fast in the icy clothes hanging on the chair, and go down to the kitchen. Gran
stokes the fire into a jumping blaze, and heats the porridge for our breakfast. Her son Eric also
lives in our five-room stone house, located two miles outside the village. Our heat is from a big
open fire in the kitchen. We get our water from a spring well. The lines men putting electric light
poles in the ground have not reached our hamlet yet. Our house is lit by candles and a big brass oil lamp.
We also depend on the light from the moon, which last night was just a sliver of silver.
Gran says,
“I’m goin’ up the stairs ta have another look at the hill an’ the mountain.” There’s no
smile on her face as she comes back down and says, “No change a ‘tall.”
“What do you see?” I ask.
“The mist is gettin’ thicker, an’ the birds are flyin’ low.
Farmer Carroll won’t take out his pony if there’s a fog, for fear of a fox jumpin’ out a the ditch an’ frightenin’ the horse” she says, and my heart sinks.

“I’ll peddle inta town, ta hear what the man on the wireless is sayin’ ‘bout the weather,”
says Uncle Eric. He comes back soon with news that more fog is expected, and my heart dives
again.
“But that radio news is mostly ta warn the fishermen,” says Gran, going back up to
examine the mountain. Still, I see no joy in her face.
“We need some wind ta lift the mist,” she says.
“Is there any change?” I ask.
“No. No change a ’tall, an’ there’s not a bird in the sky.”
“I’m goin’ out ta get the Christmas decorations,” says Uncle Eric.
“I’ll decorate the fruitcake with marzipan,” Gran says, getting her apron.
Uncle Eric arrives back with an armful of red-berry holly and pine-scented branches.
Gran’s eyes dance as she cuts them to size. Uncle Eric gets up on a chair and puts a large sprig over the portrait of Grandfather,
who died five years ago. He’s dressed in soldier’s uniform, looking regal on a chestnut horse, wearing red trousers. A sword is in his hand, and fancy feathers stick up from a hat on his head. Holly goes over the fireplace and pictures. I arrange the Christmas cards on the mantelpiece and window ledges.
Gran sings in high notes as she makes designs on the ivory marzipan with her crochet hook.
“It’s looks like a ceiling in a Basilica,” she beams.
“Ripples are formin’ down on the River Barrow,” says Uncle Eric, from the top of the
chair.
“Ah! that means a wind is comin’ in from the west,” says Gran, climbing the stairs to
scrutinize the mountain again.
“Is there any blue above the mountain?” I want to know.
“Just a small patch - but it’s almost noon.” She looks at me knowing my heart is breaking.
All I want for Christmas is to go to Midnight Mass in the Abbey, and go there by pony and trap.
“Vonnie, ya can wear your new rubber boots in the house, “ Gran says, trying to stop me from crying. They make squeaking noises when I walk, and they squelch when I jump up and
down each step of the stairs.

“I’m going’ ta get the bar a Pear’s Lavender soap in case the fog lifts, and I’ve ta wash myself for Midnight Mass,” says Gran, giving me hope.
As the clock strikes one, a man arrives on a bike singing “Christmas is comin’ an’ the
geese are gettin’ fat, please put a penny in the auld man’s hat.’ He says,
“Mrs. Earls, here’s your Christmas hamper! Compliments a Tom Joyce, the Grocer!”
Gran smiles broadly as she wades through the hamper, pulling out downy yellow apricots, smoked
fish, a block of hard cheese, a plum pudding, a bottle of whiskey, and a doll with glass eyes. She
reads the note inside,
“We’ll send your goose dinner up tomorrow at two o’clock. - The Joyce
Family.”
“They always send it since Grandfather died,” she tells me. “ They know I’ve a child in the house now again.” Her gray eyes mist over.
Soon after, Paddy The Post rings his bicycle bell outside our green iron gate.
“I’ve more Christmas cards for ye,” shouts he.
“Come in, come in!” says Gran. “Here, have a small one. A damp foggy day chills a body
ta the bone!” pouring herself a small one as well from the bottle of whiskey standing in the
hamper. His face is red, and his blue eyes sparkle and water and he says,
”Here’s to auld Ireland. Now that we’ve become a Republic in the year 1949!” clinking
their glasses. He’ll just have one small one as he has a lot more to deliver and he’ll be singing’ in the choir tonight. Gran tells him that no one can sing Silent Night like him.

Uncle Eric bursts back in the door and says a neighbor walking back from town told him
the man on the wireless announced strong winds are coming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Gran
heads up the stairs crossing her hand over hand on the banister, resting her two feet on each step
of the stairs. I see she is weary and she nods up and down examining Mount Leinster through the
old glass in the windowpane. We’re frozen in silence waiting for her to tell us what she sees on the mountain.
“The mist is breakin’ up an’ movin’ north,” she shouts.
“What else do ya see?” I dare to ask her.
“The wind is liftin’ the fog. The sky is gettin’ bluer. The heather is turnin’ purple. The
Jackdaws ‘re comin’ back in the sky! We’ll be goin’ ta Midnight mass after all!”

My heart beats like a hammer. Gran goes upstairs with a kettle of hot water to wash herself in the
porcelain basin. She wraps her long braids around her head. Uncle Eric peddles off to see if
Farmer Carroll needs a hand to harness Tanner, the pony. He comes back with the news to be
ready, , the pony and trap will be at our gate at ten o’clock. Gran brushes my hair, divides it into
two barley stacks, and ties them with crispy green tartan ribbons.

The night falls in fast. Lights wink on in the cottages and farmhouses. Gran lights our fat white candle and puts it in the turnip carved into a bowl. I wait at the window and watch the
caravan of bike lamps sidling down the narrow gravel road, oil lamps snug in glass boxes are
attached to the sides of the traps. They light up the night and warn the foxes and goats to stay
away from the road. I wave at the dark silhouettes of people passing under the small light of the moon. My heart swells to bursting when the red lantern stops outside our gate.

Tanner looks grand in his shiny black velvet coat. Uncle Eric helps Gran and me up into
the high trap, and we wrap ourselves in plaid wool blankets. This is grandeur indeed, instead of
our usual donkey and cart transport. Tanner shoots hot steam into the frosty air that peppers his wide nostrils. He chomps on his bit, tosses his mane, and trots down the Wood Road. Uncle Eric peddles ahead, the red reflector on the back of his bike guides us to the tall black iron gates at the side of the Abbey, overlooking the cemetery, which is full of crooked old tombstones, with stories carved on them. Tanner is left to guard the ancient burial grounds of the monks who came from England, 800 years ago. They chose our lush green valley, on a river teeming with fish, at the foot of purple mountains, and spent 40 years building the majestic Abbey. While they made their living farming, this village sprung up around them.

Look! All lights are blazing in the Abbey, the stained glass windows are colorful story books. As we arrive at the wide open oak doors, I see the stone knight, in full battle dress, his hand on his sword, sleeping inside the gate. When we enter the nave of the Abbey, all eyes land on my beautiful grandmother, dressed in her usual black, her skin lightly smelling of lavender, her silver braids gleaming from under her black Napoleon-style hat. She takes the arm of the usher and clasps my hand. The three of us parade up the long mosaic floor, the organist plays and people smile as they hear my new rubber boots adding their musical tones. We sit close together in our usual Sunday seats under the wall carving of Veronica, the holy woman with the same name as mine.

The old priest in gold robes is assisted by boys in crimson and lace, chanting in Latin.
Hundreds of voices murmur back at them. Snowdrops shimmer on the altar, candles dance, and
the clouds of smoky incense puffs all over the place. Gran muffles a sob when the names of my
parents and other people sick in hospital are called out. I hear soft cries during moments of
silence after the names of people who died since last Christmas are read.

On the way home, Gran said the voices in the choir soared as high as any birds’ chorus,
she’d ever heard. Happy voices call out Christmas greetings, candles sputter in windows, and the
sweet smell of turf fires fills the frosty night air. As we pass the woods on the way up the hill, the crows stay asleep in their nests at the top of the tall, naked trees. As I gaze at their sloppy round beds, swaying in the wind, my eyelids become heavy, droop down, and close. That’s the last I remember of Christmas Eve.

When I wake up, the little popping sounds escaping through Gran’s closed lips tell me
she’s in a deep sleep. I’m in the world alone. At the foot of my bed, Father Christmas has left me ... a china doll with a bald head ... a book called Treasure Island ... a pair of shiny black buckle shoes. I pounce on my bulging navy wool stocking hanging from the bed rail. I pull out a game of dominoes ... a ball of play putty ... a tin whistle! An amber orange stamped “Seville,’ rolls out of the toe.
I stop and wonder ... am I dreaming?
I reach back and feel the crispy green tartan ribbons still in my hair.
Then I remember!
Last night, I was at my first Christmas Eve Mass in the Abbey. I was taken there through
the frosty night by the grand pony and trap.
My two Christmas wishes were granted!
My heart is so joyful ... I can’t even describe it.
I feel so grown up.
Oh! I feel so grand.
###

This Christmas story won honorable mention in the 2006 Writer's Digest contest out of 19,000 entries.

Itwas published in 2006 in “Graiguenamanagh Families” published by the
Graiguenamanagh Historical Society, Ireland. It was also in the November-December edition of Celtic Heritage Magazine, NS, Canada; The December edition of The Buffalo Irish Times, and the Christmas Annual published by Ireland’s Own Magazine, Wexford, Ireland

“It’s a funny thing when a memoir about Christmas can bring a lump to your throat
early in April.”
- Phil Murphy, Editor of Ireland’s Own Magazine, Wexford, Ireland

Story ID:	1401
Written by:	Veronica Breen Hogle (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Irish Cultural Events
Story type:	Story
Location:	Graiguenamanagh Co. Kilkenny Ireland
Year:	1949
Person:	Mary Kate Earls & Vonnie Breen