IN the early 1980s, Waterford was a city holding its breath.
Where once it had soared on the gleam of the Glass—our great Waterford Crystal - the shine had faded.
The economy was floored, the future uncertain, and hope a scarce enough thing. Most young people saw the emigrant boats as their only chance - first to England, then to America or Australia. Many who left weren’t seen again for years, if ever.
What kept us afloat in those leaner winters were the two things Ireland has always relied on: family and community. And Christmas was when the two braided together like holly in a wreath.
For a few sparkling weeks we could set aside the hardship and celebrate the way the Irish do best: with laughter, food, drink enough to drown a horse, and telling stories with the ease and rhythm that’s as natural us as breath itself.
Our family was no different than any other in the town – low on cash but determined to have a mighty celebration. We built Christmas out of sheer will, and all the of magic we could conjure.
Forget the flashing Santas and ten-foot Prancer, Dancer and Rudolf you see outside Irish homes now; back then, decoration was pure invention.
Early in December I’d be sent to cut a tree from the abandoned nursery below Power Seeds on the Dunmore Road. Dragging that “borrowed” fir back through the woods, branches snagging and needles everywhere, was the real start of Christmas.
Once the tree was upright—listing slightly in an old coal box, like a man after two too many in Jack Meade’s—my mother would produce the ancient lantern lights, older than any of us, but still glowing with the stubbornness of another era.
Tinsel, trinkets, strange black angels and other glittering bits collected over decades were hung wherever they’d stay put. And then came her masterpiece: the Christmas cards. Hundreds of them, saved from years past.
She covered every inch of wall until it looked as though we were the most beloved family in the county. Decades later, in 2007, I opened one: “To Doug, my best pal, from Michael, Christmas 1972.” Time itself folded in on me like wrapping paper.
We were Catholic in my mother’s tradition, but my father—Presbyterian from Derry—carried the hymns of another heritage. Proudly Irish, yes, but with a British thread running through him.
It showed most clearly at Christmas. Like everyone, we got fiercely drunk on Christmas Eve and roared our way through Midnight Mass. But Christmas morning brought our twist: while Waterford slept off the drink, we six children were hauled early to the Presbyterian church in Ballybricken.
So few Presbyterians existed then that our family nearly doubled the congregation. Hungover and delicate, we’d always forget that we weren’t meant to genuflect. Our singing of Jerusalem was a whisper compared to the thunder we’d unleashed the night before.
After the service came the presents. Today my kids hand me curated lists with sizes and hyperlinks in October; back then, gifting was a frantic, last-minute scramble, often on Christmas Eve. Choices were limited.
Peter France made a fortune selling patterned jumpers and leather jackets to farmers. Mulligan’s of Barronstrand Street offered cameras and perfumes. And if you wanted something special for “the lack” you went to Kniesel’s Jewellers.
Christmas dinner was the great feast of the year. We’d gather in the ornate dining room overlooking the slow, silted, sweep of the River Suir. Out came the good china and polished silver.
We’d eat turkey and pudding until we were fit to burst. With every granny and Aunt sending puddings, my brother regularly managed four or five bowls swimming in brandy butter. In those moments, in that warm room, plates scraped clean, stories and laughter floating into the evening, we were -unquestionably - happy.
Bloated and merry, we’d retire to the sitting room, crowding around the big open fire as the games began. This was my mother’s favourite time—her chance to let her hair down after all the cooking and cleaning. She loved charades, Dictionary, a sort of homemade Call My Bluff, and a chaotic game called Killerwink, where one player tried to “kill” everyone with a wink. And by God, we nearly killed each other with accusations of cheating and collusion.
But above the noise I can still hear her throaty laugh—full of mischief, pride, and pure delight. Later, when hunger struck again, the first of many meals of leftover turkey and pudding would begin, lasting four or five days without fail.
There is something Ireland has lost forever: the quietness that arrived after Christmas Day. Everything closed for nearly a week, until the winter sales began in stores such as Shaws, Almost Nationwide.
In that stillness we spent our days hunting- more often poaching- pheasant and duck in the countryside. We’d leave before dawn and tramp through hills, valleys, and bogs until night fell hard and freezing, then thaw ourselves over hot ports beside a fire in a country pub.
Looking back, it’s clear the whole point of Christmas was togetherness—what we’d now call “quality time.” Before social media, before we could watch the curated lives of everyone else, we lived our own lives without comparison or envy. We were simply happy to be together, with an excuse to forget the world for a while. It was perfect.
And maybe that’s what Christmas in Waterford truly was—a small, shining pause in the hard run of the year. A time when the world outside could wait, and all that mattered were the fire, the family, and the familiar voices rising in the half-light. We had little enough, but we had each other, and that was plenty.
Before life grew noisy and complicated, before distance stretched between us, there were winters when we were all under one roof, warm and fed and foolishly happy. Looking back now, it feels like a kind of grace.
