‘My father requests Edel (he means Adele), and then we all fight over the decorations’
Christmas is a time of peace and joy and togetherness. It’s a time for terrible Hallmark movies and long overdue catchups and Baileys by the fire… in my house, it’s also a time of chaos and family arguments over whose ornament was placed highest up the tree.
Putting up the Christmas tree is a sacrosanct activity in my house, so much so that it’s superseded Jesus as the most important thing about the festive season… though with all seven of us now non-practising Catholics (at least according to our last Census form), that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.
Like Home Alone’s Kevin McAllister, I’m a sucker for a good Christmas tree. When home for the holidays (my mam’s American so I’m allowed to say things like that), I take up permanent residence on the sofa in front of the twinkling fairy lights. The Big Light is forbidden from being turned on by penalty of death and there I sit from one side of December 25th to the other. Movement is minimal and generally only entails trips to and from the fridge.
As with anything that involves seven larger-than-life personalities, erecting said Christmas tree is always interesting.
The process usually begins with my mother pulling out what she calls ‘noshies’ – this warrants the first eye roll of the evening from my sister and I who vehemently oppose her turn of phrase. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against the concept but the word makes me break out in hives. She could call them nibbles or picky bits or even hors d’oeuvres, but noshies is her preferred term and it’s grounds for family expulsion if you ask me.
While we’re bogged down by teenage embarrassment (does everyone revert back to their 15-year-old selves when home or is that just me?), my brother takes his chance to comandeer the speaker. My father’s requests for Edel (he means Adele) are ignored and our our eardrums are subject to musical whiplash with everyone from Jason Derulo to Luke Combs soundtracking the evening.
With Johnny busy queuing songs, the order of which appear to make sense to him, the rest of us get stuck in with the decorating. My dad, aptly called Noel (the Irish for which is ‘Nollaig’, meaning Christmas) is in charge of lights and dutifully laps the evergreen, feeding wire onto every branch. Once an acceptable level of glow has been achieved, it’s onto the ornaments.
Unlike the picture-perfect monochrome trees you see on Instagram, ours is a glorious mishmash of colour and texture. A framed photo of my dad goes on first – it’s a gaudy memorial to a man who is very much still alive but it takes pride of place each year (he’s even taken to gently placing it on himself, we stan the confidence).
A dazzling selection of glittery baubles are added next, along with a handmade felt snowman I bought from a friend’s TY business over 11 years ago and a few mussel shells painted to look like Santa (did I mention my mother’s American?). We step back to admire our handiwork and mentally congratulate ourselves on a job well done. Just as we’re ready to retire, someone inevitably remembers that we’ve forgotten something crucial; the angels.
Yes, dear reader… angels, plural. Most families have one tree topper; we have seven.
A gift from my granny several years ago, each angel bears the name of a different family member and as tradition would have it, he (or she) who puts theirs highest up the tree, wins Christmas. I don’t make the rules.
What follows is a mad scramble to claim the uppermost position with seven pairs of arms all vying for the top spot. My brothers, Liam or Brendan, usually reign supreme but it ain’t over til it’s over and it’s not unusual for family members to sneak back into the room to rearrange the tree when no one’s looking. Lies make baby Jesus cry but a bit of friendly competition soothes him.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
Imagery: Sarah Finnan
