In November 1979, sure that Canada wasn’t for me, I’d decided to return to Belfast, despite the car bombs and killers.
On the cusp of my second Montréal winter (after three others in Ontario), I couldn’t envision spending half of my life (ie five to six months per year) in near Siberian conditions.
I was on my own, with no friends or family, French was an uphill battle and the identifier of “Anglo” came too close to “English” for my liking.
However, since my work required me to stay until June 1980, I decided to pass on the 18-hour and expensive high season ticket to go home at Christmas ’79. Instead, I’d bite the loneliness bullet, stay in Montréal and come summer I’d leave, and I wouldn’t look back.
READ MORE
Like most of my other life plans, this one didn’t work out either.
On Christmas Eve at 5pm as I stepped out of the factory the sun was long gone.
With the temperature already well below zero, I walked very briskly along snow covered streets to my high rise rental opposite La Fontaine Park.
After dinner, I did the dishes and watched a re-re-run of a black and white Christmas movie. Halfway through the 10 o’clock news I went to bed. I didn’t bother leaving out milk and cookies for Santa.
On Christmas Day, after a lunch of canned soup and a cheese sandwich I bundled up and walked around La Fontaine Park.
Later, about 4pm I made a mug of tea and wandered over to my west-facing window, drawn by the sky’s pale blue twilight streaked by crimsons, reds and pinks.
When the last crimson sliver of the sun disappeared I stepped into the kitchen and instead of the potato peeler, I picked up a pen.
I glanced at my watch and, on the kitchen calendar, I wrote the time in the little square assigned to December 25th. Only then did I begin to prepare my pork chop, two veg and potato Christmas dinner for one.
The next afternoon, I was back at the window, with my mug of tea, watching the sun set. As I had the previous day, I wrote the time on my kitchen calendar. This is what I would do every afternoon during my vacation.
I knew this was a sad sort of ritual. It reminded me of the prisoner scratching lines in his cell wall to count down the days to freedom. However, it also contained a surprising message of hope.
In early January, when I scanned the times on my wall calendar it was like seeing the days lengthen before my eyes. With mathematical precision, each sunset came two minutes later than its predecessor.
[ An Irish digital nomad in Lisbon: I question what we’re doing hereOpens in new window ]
Knowing that the sun was coming back I felt better able to tackle the remaining winter months.
By mid-May the snow was gone, the wild geese had returned from their migration, and across the street, La Fontaine Park had a new green canopy.
Perhaps full of the joys of spring, I asked a neighbour out to lunch, certain she would say no, but she said yes. One thing led to another. In June I didn’t go back to Belfast. I began to make Montréal the place I now call home.
In Christmas ’79, my life changed forever. In the darkest part of the year I learned something important. When things are at their darkest, they often are about to get better. That knowledge, over the years, helped me weather many storms. It was, and still is, my best ever Christmas present.
So you see, Santa didn’t forget me after all.
Patrick McKenna left Belfast in 1975. Now retired, he writes about life in Belfast before and during the early years of Troubles, immigration, and making a life, in French, in Quebec. He holds masters degrees in chemistry from Queens in Belfast and in education from the Université de Montréal. His family in Montreal are his friends and neighbours.
- Are you Irish and living in another country? Would you like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad by writing a piece or by interview. You can use the form above, or email abroad@irishtimes.com.
- Follow us on Instagram to keep up with the latest
- Sign up to The Irish Times Abroad newsletter for Irish-connected people around the world.
