Recalling the ‘second day of Christmas’ in the 1970s in Beara, writer Maria C Henry says December 26th was a day when the pressure was off, and the real fun could finally begin
SAINT Stephen’s Day, or Stephenses Day, as it’s called here in Beara, is the public holiday that falls on December 26th and is the second day of Christmas.
The day celebrates the first Christian martyr, St Stephen, who, it is believed, was stoned to death for his teachings.
However, the Irish celebrations on this day have little to do with the saint himself, but traditions relating more to a small bird, turkey sandwiches, and a day for the pub.
When I was a child growing up in the 1970s, I knew the day as Wren’s (pronounced wran’s) Day.
Unlike Christmas Day, the pressure was off. The madness of shopping was over, presents were exchanged, Santa’s been, the turkey was overcooked, and part eaten.
My mam warned us, the night before, that the day was a lie-in for her and to be quiet in the morning when we were playing with our new toys.
The stress of the previous few months organising a hooley for The Big Day took its toll on my mam.
The day always got off to a good start with sugary cereals and Christmas breakfast TV. After a day of no commercials between the shows, RTÉ made up for it with adverts full of details of the massive saving to be had in the January sales. I used to wonder who would have the money to buy a new sofa after Christmas.
Before my mam went to bed on Christmas night, she would leave piles of coppers by the front door.
As we lived in the town, we would have wren singers at the front door from early morning until night time.
Me and my siblings would take turns answering the door and distributing the pennies.
By the time I was old enough to sing in The Wren, the ceremonies connected with stoning one of the smallest of birds to death were long gone. Now the scary part of the event was remembering all the words to The Wren Song. There would have to be a few carols in the repertoire as there could be requests for more than the one song.
Shortly after my mam got up, she would have had enough of the bickering, noise, the TV and being asked for ‘Boxing Day’ presents in my very best Mary Poppins accent, only to be told I was not British and she didn’t have servants (bringing in buckets of coal didn’t count, despite my protests).
She would dump a bag of old clothes and straw hats in the sitting room where me and my siblings would dress up and my mam would send us on our merry way, no matter the weather.
Off I would go with my siblings, my timid heart and tin whistle.
We would call to neighbours, friends, and relations who once they identified us would welcome us into their toasty warm homes.
Once we sang our few songs, we would be served dry turkey sandwiches or Christmas cake, a cup of hot tea, and maybe a few pennies.
News of Santa, visitors and how the Christmas went would be exchanged and then it would be off to the next house.
As we walked around the small town that had over 20 public houses, we would hear the roaring from the pubs that had TVs in the bar like MacCarthy’s, Shea’s and Donoghue’s.
Back then, not every house had a television, so people gathered in the locals for one of the biggest sporting days in the year.
The racing from Fairyhouse that I was trying to avoid on the TV at home was on in the pubs. From the sounds inside, it was like everyone on the peninsula and every returning emigrant was there. Even the smaller pubs like Hanley’s, Lynch’s, and Cotter’s would have the radio on for their customers.
The car park of the Beara Bay and Twomey’s were packed, in a time of very few cars.
In the afternoon, we would meet folk returning from the local bowling, where dozens gathered at the best straight-and-level road (in the pre-EEC roads, that wasn’t an easy find).
Dozens, both young and not so young, would gather to cheer on the local champions.
Traditionally, we would finish our singing tour of the town about 3 pm and head to the square, where we would meet up with school friends. We would trade stories of Santa’s deliveries and any interesting event that happened since we broke up from school a few days before.
The last stop of the day was MacCarthy’s, which was the main grocer and bar in the square. Once I pushed my way through the haze of cigarette smoke to the counter, I had the tough decision of what to buy, as the place was an emporium of jars of sweets.
By the time I got home at 3.30pm, the racing was over and it was family time on the TV again. Usually, movies like The Litttle Drummer Boy and the Wanderly Wagon special entertained me. I watched whatever was on the television because RTÉ2 didn’t make an appearance until 1978.
On St Stephen’s night, there was no late-night watching TV for me or my siblings as we were sent off to bed early.
There was a tradition of card playing and neighbours would come to our house.
I would toddle off to bed, leaving my mam in the kitchen making sandwiches, swearing that next year, she would buy a large chicken!
