Every Christmas night, I’d dutifully make the mandatory call ‘home’

Every Christmas night, full of too much of everything, I’d dutifully make that mandatory phone call “home”. My mother would without fail, scoop up the receiver by the second ring. The answering machine hadn’t a hope in hell.

As she fielded those Christmas calls from those of us living abroad, she was in her element. But all our long distance conversations came to an abrupt end back in that ferocious winter of 2010.

If I’m to be brutally honest, I have to say my Christmas calls often stirred up conflicting emotions. They’d become some kind of double-edged ritual, as it had become increasingly difficult to reconcile the gulf that had seeped into our lives.

I could visualise the scene at home and yet I really could not, as I’d left that life well and truly behind. Roasting a chook or two late on a hot Christmas Eve in Melbourne always felt a little preposterous and not quite right; though I continued to do it all the same. But of course, it was all a little more complicated than the matter of Christmas cuisine.

And in his final few years, the old man wasn’t up to saying much when he’d eventually make it to the phone in the hallway. His lengthy silences became the most poignant part of our stop-start conversation. For a man who used to have an opinion on just about everything, he’d come the full circle.

From half-way around the world, I found his ebbing away and deterioration so difficult to reconcile. And beyond her talk about the weather, and her preparations for the big day, my mother was also starting to sound at a loss after a few minutes.

Towards the end of their lives, I was in no position to have any input into what was the best course of action for their changing circumstances. That responsibility fell squarely on those siblings still at home. Such is the redundant status of so many of us who choose to leave.

Anyhow, I wonder if it’s inevitable that we migrants drift apart from our families of origin, and, of course, our parents. For emigration certainly shakes loose the bonds until, at the end of the day, there’s precious little left for us at all, save for all those unreliable memories of the auld sod.

I suspect these are sobering even unpalatable words for many would be migrants to digest. But, as a long term migrant, that has been my reality. Of this, I’m sure that many fellow lifers will agree.

I have, to all intents and purposes, and without any particular rancour, drifted away from most of my siblings. And over the final few years of my parents’ lives, our contact became sporadic and infrequent. No doubt, we thought of each constantly, but for all that, we were living our parallel existence and our everyday lives simply ran their course.

I hold Ireland in my head or is it my heart? I honestly never really can tell. And that’s where it remains again this Christmas.

I was more riveted by the recent siege in Sydney than I ever could be about the bank enquiry that’s underway in Ireland. No disrespect about what’s unfolding in Ireland but what’s happening all over Australia is more likely to keep me awake in the wee hours. And I feel far more qualified to have an opinion on Tony Abbott, our prime minister, than I do about Enda Kenny.

At this time of year, while many people in Ireland are fed up with the grey rainy days and diminishing daylight hours, Australians, especially those of us who live in rural areas, are fretting about the lack of rain for our water tanks and the inevitable threat of bushfires. Just the other day several houses were lost in a bushfire in Victoria.

But for all that, Christmas, though it’s a different experience here Down Under, still retains its sense of uniqueness that goes well beyond any religious connotations. Yes, different. Not superior or inferior to an Irish Christmas. We also have the last minute shopping frenzy, the getting together of extended family members for Christmas lunch. Motorists are cautioned to be extra careful on the roads. Christmas here also signals the start of annual leave for many people. The long summer is finally beckoning.

My mother always liked to talk about the Australian weather. And although she never said as much, I suspect she was a tad envious. She was never one to tolerate the cold. Apt I suppose it was that she suddenly passed away just after her Christmas of 2010 was done and dusted.

[ Philip Lynch ]