Ghosts of Christmas past
Scrooge’s ghosts terrified him; I love mine. First, Bridget, my mother, and Aunt Emma, a child waking very early on Christmas morning finding gifts from Daddy na Nollaig (Santa). The excitement of tearing wrapping paper, joy uncovered. Breakfast, then Mass, home to the aroma of something wonderful in the oven. People coming and going, cousins and friends showing off our festive treasures to each other. The warmth of a blazing fire, surrounded by love, the essential ingredient of childhood.
Next ghost, a young woman in a snow-covered Bavarian suburb hurrying along an icy street in clothing and boots bought in London for a softer winter. The warm sanctuary of a Catholic church of familiar scents added to the sweet aroma of a pine tree standing near the alter. Nostalgia seeped in; I was missing my family. Then the congregation began to sing Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Silent night, Holy night, emotional tears at its sheer beauty ran down my face, I joined in. Home to hot coffee, sugar-coated cinnamon biscuits and gifts. It was 1963, the year President Kennedy was assassinated.
Next, two young people in love arriving in my hometown. I had brought Andreas to meet the family who immediately loved him, he was enraptured by the welcome and compared our fishing village to Kyrenia. My mother mothered him; he loved her back. There was no question about his Orthodoxy or his being non-Irish, all Bridget asked was, ‘Do you love him?’ She could see he loved me.
The first Christmas after my mother’s death to cancer created a wound long lasting and deep, Andreas comforted me. By the following Christmas our son was born. The ghost of our first festive season in Cyprus, sees us broke, Andreas’ army service delayed employment. From the veranda of his parents’ home, we could see the Kyrenia mountains as we made gifts for our children, friends and family, and hand-crafted cards; we were happy.
Christmas 1974 – a sad one, his close friend was missing in action during the Turkish army invasion, lives we knew utterly disrupted and lost. Muted celebration of survival, now the beauty of those beloved mountains was no longer ours to enjoy, occupied, filled with too many ghosts, but life went on.
The ghost of my late sister Nuala searching for Cypriot fruit for Andreas awaiting brain surgery in a London clinic. The stretched terror of anticipating news after his surgery, hope of recuperation that daily evaporated by his bedside. Returning at night to a generous, Woodgreen couple with whom I stayed. Finding Mary, a childhood friend, ‘You have to come stay with us.’ One night, walking to Mary’s, a mugger with a long knife cornered me. Luckily, police knew of his activities in the area and came to my rescue.
December 21, 1978, Andreas died. Ghost memories instead of a loving, wonderful man filled that Yule Tide as two grief-bewildered children tried to grasp that the father they adored was gone. The emptiness of that loss at that time of the year, only those who have that dual experience can know. Many difficult years followed but our little united family fought our pain and survived.
Then one Christmas in the Old Town, the sweet voices of children’s choirs filling Eleftheria square, families shopping together, I felt so alone, tears came as I hid in a corner weeping grief I had muffled over years: catharsis. My two married, and had great children with whom to celebrate the Orthodox feast. Two dear friends will also have an empty chair this year, good men gone. Today is Andreas’ anniversary, we will go to church, listen intently for his name to be called out. The loss remains but old ghosts can also bring happy memories.