THE BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENTS EVER

THE BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENTS EVER
By Veronica Breen Hogle

It was the first day of winter. The thick frost made spider web designs on the rippled windowpanes and veiled the purple heather on Mount Leinster as it unfolded down to the Barrow River. While Gran made the Christmas plum pudding, we heard the new noise everyone in the village was talking about. Through the little porthole I made with the fleshy side of my fist on the frozen window, I spied Farmer Michael O’Shea’s new black car coming along the winding narrow gravel road. I watched as it dipped behind the gray rock walls and reappeared at the top of the hill at Walshe’s cottage. When the car stopped outside our green iron gate, my heart beat like a hammer. Farmer O’Shea took long strides up the steep incline to our house and gave four loud raps on our door. I stood beside Gran and she flung it wide open.

“Mornin’ Mrs. Earls,” he said, taking his cap off and rolling it between his rough red hands. “I’m driving into Bagenalstown the day before Christmas Eve. Would yourself an’ the child like ta drive in with me for the day – ya could see your daughter, Eileen - - an’ the child could see her mother…” he offered.

“This is a grand surprise,” she said. “Oh, we’d love to go. I was goin’ to send Eileen her Christmas presents on the bus. Would you have room for a few medium-size boxes?”
“That’d be no bother a ‘tall,” says Farmer O’Shea. “I’ve lots a room in the booth of the car.”

Gran spent the next day getting the Christmas presents ready. I washed my hair and polished my black leather shoes. I was beside myself with happiness because I had knit a pair of red mittens for my mother who was just home from the hospital after being sick for a long time. The thumbs had turned out round and wide. I could wrap them in the old stocking box and give the mittens to her in person.

At nine o’clock, the morning before Christmas Eve, Farmer O’Shea’s car chugged outside our gate. He put our boxes in the booth and helped Gran and me into his car. Gran told me to sit in the back, be as quiet as a mouse, and not to ask too many questions. She sat in the front seat, looking regal with her black Napoleon-style-hat. A rose pink silk blouse with a cameo brooch at her throat peeked out from under her black, wool coat. Her eyes gray were huge and clear as she looked out the car window, amazed at the speed of the trees and hedges flying past.

“Now only for you, Mike, we wouldn’t be able to see Eileen at all. It’s just too far for our old ass and cart and the bus doesn’t get back into Graiguenamanagh ‘til eight o’clock at night.”

They talked about Ireland having just been declared a Republic. Both of them agreed times were hard for everyone and that we’d always remember that Ireland could finally withdrew from the British Commonwealth in 1949.

In what seemed like no time, we arrived outside my mother’s house. Farmer O’Shea rapped on the door and went back to get the three boxes from his car. The door opened and my mother’s face lit up with delight.

“Come in! Come in!” she said and she reached out to hug me. I gave her the wrapped box with the mittens and she said she would open it when she woke up on Christmas morning, and she would think of me opening my stocking. Gran stood with an air of importance, a hint of lavender and her ear-to-ear smile, patiently waiting her turn to give her presents to Mammy.

“My goodness, what do you have in the three boxes?” Mammy asked, her green eyes dancing.

“Eileen, I have an apple dumpling in this box, fresh cut holly in that one, and two of the loveliest Rhode Island Reds you’ve ever seen in the big one!” said Gran with great gusto.

She leaned over and lifted up the hens and put them sitting together on the kitchen floor. The hens were handsome, sporting thick crimson combs that wobbled at the tops of their heads and matching oval bibs hung down from under their beaks. They wore full mahogany skirts over white petticoats, and their cloaks had golden hues that glinted and shimmered when they turned in the light. They fanned out their deep red plumed tails and made them as beautiful as art from the Orient. They craned their necks and cocked their heads side to side. Their yellow-green eyes looked nervous. Gran circled her hand over the hens, clucked at them with her tongue and they settled down.

“This is Rosie, all eight pounds of her, and here’s Jane, just as plump! Two great layers, laying those lovely brown eggs that you’ve always loved.” The hens were spanceled at the legs and by now they had hunkered down with their necks buried down in their shoulders. They dropped their shutters over their eyes and dozed. Mammy stood there wringing her hands and said nothing.

“Eileen, they are your Christmas present,” my grandmother said. She looked back and forth lovingly between my mother and the hens.

”But what would I do with ‘em? We can’t have hens in the town. The man from the County Council would be after me if I’d hens," said Mammy becoming anxious.

“But, they’re for your Christmas dinner! Rosie would make a lovely roast,” said Gran, sinking her fingers into the hen’s plump extended breast. “And Jane would make a bountiful chicken stew. A succulent savory chicken wing makes a grand little meal… Eileen.”

“But, they’re alive! I couldn’t kill ‘em! Who’d kill ‘em?” Mammy asked, becoming more desperate by the minute.

“There’s nothin’ to it,” said Gran. “You just have to stretch their necks out nice and long and … snap ‘em,” showing Mammy how to do it with hand motions.

“Oh I couldn’t do that? Could you do it?” implored my mother.

“No. Not me Eileen! Not a ‘tall. Sure they know me too well. Eileen, just ask one of the neighbor to do it. How about the butcher up the street? Has Tommy the postman been here yet?”

“I feel strange asking people to help me put our Christmas dinner together,” said Mammy and her eyes began to fill up.

“Well, as a last resort, we’ll ask Mike O’Shea when he comes back,’ said Gran, her face flushed with frustration and the effects of two Baby Powers’ whiskies.

When Mike O’Shea came back to drive us back to grandmother’s house, Gran explained the situation to him and asked him to kill the hens for Mammy so she could have a lovely Christmas dinner. He looked at all of us in turn, rolled his cap in his hands and scratched the side of his head. He looked at the hens. They craned their necks again and made sad, solo cackles, like a funeral bell. I looked down at them and remembered I often played with them. I could pick them up, tuck their heads under their wing, twirl them around and they would go fast asleep. I didn’t want to lose my little playmates and I started to cry.

“Mrs. Earls. Well now, ya know… I’m a hunter. The only way I could kill them hens now… is with a gun… after a fair chase,” said Farmer O’Shea.

Gran stood up and pinned on her hat. She swooped down and lifted the hens back into the box. “Girls, we’re goin’ home!” she said, looking sad and happy at the same time.

On the way back in the car, no one talked about Rosie and Jane. It was dark as we bumped over the Tinnahinch Bridge and into the little village of Graiguenamanagh. We passed the Anchor Hotel and through the ringlets of steam making their way down the windows, I saw the silhouettes of bareheaded men and women in hats laughing and talking through a haze of purple-gray pipe and cigarette smoke. Toys and the signs of Christmas were in the lighted shop windows and the long narrow street was full of people carrying parcels. We passed the old Abbey and drove up the Wood Road.

The December moon was a huge silver pendant in the navy sky and the tall fir trees lifted their arms in adoration and thanks for the clear bright night. Gran carried Rosie and Jane under her arms out to the henhouse. She mumbled to them in a low voice that they had a narrow escape, but she was glad to have them back just the same.

A few days after Christmas, the postman brought a letter. Gran smiled as she read it to me.

“Dearest Mother and Vonnie, The red mittens keep my hands toasty and I’m feeling stronger every day. The apple dumpling was the best ever! The red-berry holly and ivy on the mantle and over the tops of the pictures cheered the whole house. It was grand to have met Rosie and Jane. Come visit again soon, and bring some of their lovely brown eggs! Love to all. From,
Eileen and Mammy." X XX ###

This story appeared in the 2007 Christmas Edition of “Ireland’s Own” Magazine, Wexford, Ireland.

Story ID:	3327
Written by:	Veronica Breen Hogle (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Irish Cultural Events
Story type:	Family Memories
Writers Conference:	My Favorite Holiday Story
Location:	Graiguenamanagh Co. Kilkenny Ireland
Year:	1949
Person:	Mrs. Earls, Mrs. Breen and me