Article December 20, 2004 Issue

Remembering family times in Belfast

By Brian Kissock

I have always loved Christmas, especially as a boy growing up near Belfast, Northern Ireland. I recall the Christmas tree, the decorations, the large log-and-peat fire (and my red face as I sat beside it), and the aromas of burning turf, the turkey and stuffing cooking in the oven, and the mince pies. I can still picture the occasional dusting of snow outside—as kids we always prayed for snow—and the mound of presents under the tree. (If I was getting a bicycle, how could it be so small?)

My parents would go out around our area distributing packages of food and beautifully wrapped presents to people less fortunate than we were. Then, on Christmas eve, we would all go to church for carol singing. It was such a jolly time. Everyone seemed so happy.

I had a favorite uncle, my mother's brother. Every year he would bring us a large turkey. Then he and his family would join with ours on Christmas Day, and my sister and I would have great fun opening our presents and playing with our cousins. My uncle would regale us with stories of World War II, of the days when he raced motorcycles, and how he once went right through a hedge but was unharmed. Sometimes he would break out into gales of infectious laughter, and we would all join in until there were tears rolling down our cheeks. In retrospect, my uncle's tales couldn't have been that funny, but my uncle had a way of making people laugh.

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