A Bronx Irish Christmas Long Ago [Terence Winch]

 A Bronx Irish Christmas Long Ago   [Terence Winch]

Paddy Winch, Bridie Winch, Kenny Reich, Jesse [Jimmy] Winch, 
Terence Winch, P.J. Conway, kitchen of 1912 Daly Ave, Bronx, ca. 1961

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C E L E B R A T I O N

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In our world, nothing compared

with Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

God’s power surging through the congregation,

from altarboys in our stiff collars and big red bows,

to the solid men of the parish in their finest array:

blue suits, gold wrist watches, crisp white shirts.

The women perfumed and girdled, lipsticked

and bejeweled. Enough incense

in the air to do the Wise Men proud.

The procession wound through the church,

organ honking, voices lifted in the special

Christmas sense of the slate wiped clean

and the universe beginning anew.

The tree in the house lit with fat colored bulbs

that looked good enough to eat. The old suitcase

full of fragile decorations, buried treasure found

every year on Christmas Eve and set free again.

The baby Jesus alive and well! Herod thwarted!

This called for presents. Toys, games, maybe

a watch or a knife. Along with Jesus came the whole

cast of Yuletide characters—Santa, Rudolph,

the Chipmunks, Bing Crosby, Jack Frost, Scrooge.

I’m surprised the Easter Bunny didn’t crash

the event. My father put out apple pie

and a glass of milk for Sanny, the remaining traces

of which on Christmas morning were proof enough

for me and my brother Jimmy of the entire

supernatural infrastructure of Bronx Irish culture.

But it was the party after Midnight Mass

that I remember most. Relatives and neighbors

would pour into our apartment for an all-nighter.

My mother would get the percolator going,

and start making breakfast for half the parish.

Bacon, eggs, blood pudding, plates of fresh rolls

with poppy seeds bought that day

in the Treat Bakery on Tremont Avenue.

Eating breakfast at two in the morning!

This was a miracle for a ten-year-old boy.

Bottles of Seagram’s and Canadian Club

stood at attention on the kitchen table,

silver ice bucket ringed with penguins

awaiting duty beside them. Ladies smoking

and gossiping. Glasses clinking. Laughter

throughout the house. The smell of pine,

the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon,

all welcoming Jesus back for another year.

Then the music and singing would start up,

my father on the banjo, P. J. Conway on the box.

The Stack of Barley, The Lakes of Sligo,

medleys of marches, waltzes, and polkas.

Theresa McNally, from my mother’s own town

in Galway, would sing “Galway Bay.” Steps would

be danced, jokes told, more drinks mixed and gulped.

I would go to bed so filled with the spirit

it seemed impossible to believe that life could

ever return to normal. Lying there exhausted,

but anxious to sneak down the hall at the earliest

opportunity and tear open the tantalizing packages,

I believed in everything: Jesus our Lord, Santa

our magic benefactor, my parents the immortal source

of the ongoing celebration that could never end.

[from Boy Drinkers, Hanging Loose Press, 2007]

Listen to  "Celebration" read by Pat Broaders of the Chicago-based band Bohola, from their Christmas CD.

P.J. Conway, my father Paddy Winch, and Brian Keenan in 1958. 

P.J. and my father performed locally in NY as "The Two Pats."  If they had a drummer for any particular gig, it would either be me, my brother Jesse, or P.J.'s nephew Brian, who immigrated from England in the '50s.  Brian went on to become the drummer for The Chambers Brothers, who were popular in the '60s and later.  He died pretty young, and lived pretty hard, as I recall. I am the steward of P.J.'s Walters D/C# accordion and my father's Vega tenor banjo seen in the photo. I used to have one of those green plaid tuxedo jackets, too, but it has vanished.

This post first appeared on The Best American Poetry blog, 23 Dec. 2010

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A note about this blog: in the fall of 2025, Typepad, a blog platform, ceased operating. This was the platform used by The Best American Poetry blog, a site I contributed to for 17 years. When Typepad went down, all of BAP's content was erased. Craic-Head Poetry will attempt to re-create and re-post versions of some of the disappeared posts I composed over the years. Craic is an Irish word for news, gossip, fun, entertainment, and enjoyable conversation.

©Terence Winch  
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