The Night before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas. There!  I have always wanted to say that, but I had no excuse to, actually. Telling this story is therefore two pronged…to tell it and to use that word.  An obsession really; and not to copy good Mr. Clement Clarke Moore.

Now this event occurred many years ago when I was still a spritely teenager and a very active member of our Catholic Legion of Mary team.  
There were about 12 of us juniors in that group, aged between ten and 15, and as such we were quite rambunctious much to the chagrin of our Priest and his Senior Legionnaires.  We were often chastised with Hail Marys and Our Fathers for stealing fruits from the church orchard or running round and round the good Padre’s house.  He did have a nicely trimmed garden as opposed to our paddy fields.

It so happened that we were also members of the church choir which we took to with a zest that was almost horrifying. Our hallelujahs shook the rafters and our Amens were enthusiastic enough to wake the dead.

Several days before Christmas, we went caroling, all 12 of us, with our leader carrying Christmas cards and an empty biscuit tin to put our collection in. This collection was for the church coffer by the way.

So we went from house to house, singing carols in our dialects and then topping that of with ‘Merry Christmas’ in English. Satisfied, we would listen to the rustle of money exchanging hands or the clink of coins dropping into our tin.

As the day went darker into twilight, we grew a bit tired so we agreed to go home by 10pm. Most people were asleep by then and didn’t appreciate being woken up by somnolent off-key singers trying to avoid candle wax on their hands.

I was lagging behind, dragging my feet when I suddenly realized that my group was so far ahead, I could only recognise their flickering candle light. It was on a particularly dark spot along the road, too. I ran after them. I was a rather thin 13-year old then so I could run fairly well. I just could not catch up with them, even though they were merely walking, and not very fast at that.

It was then that I heard a sound like ‘swashaaa’, and a gust of cold wind blew on me; literally shoving me. I yelled and ran faster, and of course as fate would have it, I stumbled over a piece of wood and fell, my face just a few inches from a pile of buffalo dung.  

Everybody stopped and looked down at me sprawled at their feet.  My choir group sniggered and walked on, not really interested to know why I suddenly tripped and fell. According to them I have been walking along with them all the time, and then suddenly I yelled, stumbled and fell. Maybe I fell asleep on my feet and dropped, someone suggested. Very Funny!

Nobody really believed me then, and I don’t think they would now. But this memory would always haunt me especially before Christmas. Haunt may not be really it, but you know what I mean.