Copyright © 2012 Richard P. Nixon All Rights Reserved.
Near the end of Church Street was the house of the parish priest, with green railings around it and shiny brass knocker and letter box on the door. Next to this was Orange Hall, with its red, white, and blue painted flagpole and the Union Jack flying aloft. A patch of scrubland opposite these two buildings was known as Ball Alley. This was the playing field of cats, dogs, chickens, and the children of Church Street.
I passed by the three churches that represented the three denominations of the area, their graveyards bright with fresh flowers and holly wreaths, the stained glass windows brilliant in the afternoon sun. The last building along the way was the little two-roomed schoolhouse, where I froze in winter and roasted in summer and loved always. A few donkeys in a nearby field, and a bull with a ring in its nose in Yankee Patterson's meadow were the last signs of life along the way.
When I reached my destination, the woman of the house was in the byre, settling straw for the cow, which was still in the field at the side of the little white thatched house. She waved a fistful of straw at me, grinning, as I paused at the door.
“A happy Christmas to ye! Go on in,” she called.
“And a happy Christmas to you, too,” I replied, and headed for the kitchen door a few feet away.
The five children were around the kitchen table, a long plank scrubbed white, playing a game of Old Maid with cards Santa Claus had given the family at the Parish Orphans' Party two days before.
I passed by the three churches that represented the three denominations of the area, their graveyards bright with fresh flowers and holly wreaths, the stained glass windows brilliant in the afternoon sun. The last building along the way was the little two-roomed schoolhouse, where I froze in winter and roasted in summer and loved always. A few donkeys in a nearby field, and a bull with a ring in its nose in Yankee Patterson's meadow were the last signs of life along the way.
When I reached my destination, the woman of the house was in the byre, settling straw for the cow, which was still in the field at the side of the little white thatched house. She waved a fistful of straw at me, grinning, as I paused at the door.
“A happy Christmas to ye! Go on in,” she called.
“And a happy Christmas to you, too,” I replied, and headed for the kitchen door a few feet away.
The five children were around the kitchen table, a long plank scrubbed white, playing a game of Old Maid with cards Santa Claus had given the family at the Parish Orphans' Party two days before.
