Our First Christmas Tree

Ah were we poor when I was young. And in a way it made us feel closer to the Holy Family. They couldn’t afford a hotel or a decent BnB and had to settle for a stable. At least we had a proper house, although it was quite small.I can vividly recall one particular Christmas when we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree. My father, being a resourceful small farmer, used what nature provided. That’s one great advantage of living on the land. You can plant potatoes and vegetables ,so one will never go hungry. You can cut a few trees and branches from the hedge for the fire in winter when the temperatures drop below zero.

At Christmas we took sprigs from the big holly treeup the lane.. When the holly has red berries nothing beats it for a Christmas decoration. Bits and pieces were placed on the window sills and on top of holy picturesaround the house.So when it came to an alternative, and a replacement for the regular pine, live Christmas tree it was to the hedge that my father turned.

Early on Christmas Eve morning, with billhook and bow saw in hand he went on the prowl through the fields keeping close to the hedges.Soon he eyed something that fitted the bill,

, 'Perfect, he mumbled to himself, and with lights and all attached'.

‘ It’s a whin bush,’ I said to him,’ when he arrived back with the bush.' that won’t look very Christmassy, more Christ-messey.'

‘ Why not’ he replied, ‘its green and the yellow blossoms look like fairy lights.It'll

fit perfectly in the corner of the kitchen’

Whin bushes were very plentiful along the hedges on our farm. Their proper name is furze. That’s what posh and edcuated people call them, but ,whins, was all we ever knew them as.

It was a hobby of mine to go around the farm in summer time setting fire to clumps of whins.First I, ignited the brown ,withered undercarriage of the bush and whoosh. Suddenly they were buring bright, fierce and out of control. A hungry flame is hard to satisfy. At times there was so much smoke billowing around the locality, that it resembled a scene from Pear Harbour. All good clean fun from an innocent youngster with nothing much better to do.Instead of Jim Morrisons' ,'come on baby light my fire,' I was shouting across the hedge to the girl next door,

'Come on over baby and burn a few whin bushes'

So with little fuss or fanfare the whin bush was installed in the corner of our country kitchen. There it stood proud, and happy to be inside from the cold of a northern facing hedge ,serving as the most important Christmas decoration in our house that year And my father was right. The yellow blossoms did look like fairy lights. Better still they didn’t have to be plugged in and use up electricity. Our ‘Christmas Tree’ had a zero carbon rating long before such words came in vogue.

That was until our Christmas night party.Nieghours and friends called in for a few hours. Drink was consumed and the crack was always good. Card games were played. My father would then take out the fiddle. Chairs and tables were cleared from the floor and the night always ended with a bit of a dance and hooley. With all the merriment and fun taking place no one noticed a cigarette butt that was flicked under the ‘Christmas Tree’.The cigarette end lodged in the lower branches of the bush. These were withered and had turned brown. From my whin burning activities I knew that this was the spot you put the match to when you wanted to light a bush.

Suddenly the kitchen was being engulfed by dirty, black-grey smoke. From the bottom up flames were getting a grip and adding a whole new illumination to the dimly lit room.

Thankfully my mother, who didn’t touch alcohol, and was in the full presence of her mind, acted quickly and decisively. Grabbing a big dish of old greasy washing up water ,she doused the hungry flames. With much hissing, spluttering and crackling the fire went into retreat. A mushroom type cloud of smoke and dust rose towards the ceiling. Anyone passing, either human or alien and pausing to look in our window would have believed that we were conducting some type of nuclear test explosion. I put the finishing touches to the fires extermination. I grabbed one of the neighbour’s coats;( later I found out it was his Sunday best). I threw it down on the glowing ashy embers and stamped my feet on it several times. There and then the fire died without a further whimper.

Needles to say that ended the party. Windows were opened to let the fumes and smoke out. The neighbour wasn’t too pleased about his coat. We did our best to explain to him that the loss of a coat was preferable to being burned alive on a Christmas night. He seemed to accept that fact and we got away without having to promise to buy him a new one.

So that is the story of our very special Christmas tree from bygone days. Now every Christmas Eve, as we set up the artificial tree which I bought in a car boot sale for five euro 10 years ago, I repeat this story to my children. They never fail to laugh at the story as they realise the fun we had in the house that Christmas night. We shake our heads and affirm that Christmas just isn’t the same anymore.