a child’s christmas in cork · (or “santy” as he was known in cork) was rather tricky. even...
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by Fr . Seán ÓLaoire , PhD - 2016 ,VoLume 8
A Child’sChristmasin Cork
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The best stories of allare “re-magined” ones.Re-magining is when
you cross-fertilizeremembering
with imagining. It is the childwho can turn
ordinary eventsinto exotic adventures,
transforming drab,black-and-white
photos...
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...into colorful,3-D
holographicvideos.
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It is the gift most prized bypoets, seers,
artists and scientists,to enable them to go where
none have gone before them.
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It is the quest of the old-spirit-in-a-young-bodywho is happy to sift through the dung heap
to discover the pony hiding inits warm, moist, steamy interior.
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It salvages the miraculousfrom the illusion of the mundane,
prising open the sand-camouflaged oyster shellto reveal the pearl of great price.
It is the mystic releasing the eternalfrom the clutches of the mortal.
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And it is the charism I will use to recall my Christmas of 1950,when I had just turned four and
lived in a suburb of Cork Citycalled Gurranabraherwith my grandparents
and my uncle Noel, who istwo months younger than me.
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Back then, Ireland was, economically,a very poor place.
In fact there was only one phone- a stand-alone kiosk -
serving all of Gurranabraher’s3,000 plus residents.
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Nobody phoned out,we couldn’t afford to;
but there would be queueseach evening
to receive calls fromour many emigrant relatives
in the USA,Canada England
andAustralia.
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The system went like this.An emigrant daughter would write home and say,
“I will phone you at 6pm on July 19th.” She would have to give us several weeks warning
to make sure the letter arrivedwell before the phone date.
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On the appointed day, by 5pm,the family would join
the long queue at the phone kiosk,outside McAuliffe’s shop,excitement running high.
Inside the kiosk,the phone would ring shrilly,
dancing on its cradle. Before it had rung thrice,
the first in line would grab it,hoping the call was for her.
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Mostly, it wasn’t;so she’d open the door and announce,
”It’s for the Murphy’s!”and the Murphy clan would surge forwardtrying to stuff as many bodies as possible
into that one-butt kiosk.Everybody else could hear
the Cork end of the conversation.
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Soon the rest of uswould grow impatient and murmur,
“Hurry up, we’re expecting a call at six o’clock!” This ritual would be repeated several times,
and we’d be lucky if our callmanaged to find a gap before 8pm.
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Se�nGiven, then, the state of communication -no computers, faxes nor iPads,
and only one phone for all of Gurranabraher - establishing contact with Santa Claus(or “Santy” as he was known in Cork)
was rather tricky.Even snail mail was costly;
the postage to the North Pole was prohibitive,so “Santy” had devised a special arrangement
for the children of Ireland.
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Here’s how it went. Sometime during the last week
before Christmas, after school was out,you’d tear a clean page out
of your “copy book” and write...
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Then you’d put the sheet of paper,sans envelope, up the chimney,making sure it didn’t get burned
(nor your elbow either)by the ever-glowing turf fire. The hot air wafted it upwards
and sped it towards the North Pole. You’d rush outside to watch its progress.
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Sometimes it would be snowingand you’d have a gaggle
of street urchins like yourself,standing on Saint Rita’s Avenue
watching the snowflakesfloat down
and the Santa lettersfloat up
like speckled salmonfighting against the rapids
on their journey home.They always made it.
Namasté,
Tír na nÓg2016, Volume 8
Se�nPhotoshop Assistant: Kenny Hayes
Images: Seán & Family: Seán;Gurranabraher: CorkPastAndPresent.ie; all other: Pixabay.com