January 6th is known by many names – Little Christmas, Three Kings Day, the Feast of the Epiphany, 12th Night. By any name, it is the last of the 12 days of Christmas.
It’s hard not to feel a bit of a let-down, as we pack away the bright ornaments and the fairy lights and hunker down for the rest of the dark winter. But in Ireland, the ornaments are still up on January 6, where the day is known as Nollaig na mBan, the Women’s Christmas, an old and wonderful tradition that embraces and celebrates the end of the winter holidays.
The custom is that on this day, Irish women get a much needed rest, and a party, all their own after cooking, cleaning and catering to everyone else during the weeks of holiday festivities. On January 6, they may sit back and let the men take over the house work and the babies.
In the old days, when it wasn’t thought proper for a woman to be in a pub on her own, it was the one day that all the ladies of the village crowded into a snug at the pub and shared sandwiches and cakes, a short stout and a small sherry.
Today, women of all ages gather in homes, hotels, restaurants and cafes for wine, a lovely meal, and laughter and chat.
The WiseWebWoman blog has a lovely post, describing the Irish author’s childhood memories of her mother, aunts and their friends as they celebrated together on January 6th …she says…
“…I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired."
"I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him."
"I'd learn of the sad (stories), the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married."
"They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit. Most of all, I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening."
"A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven, thus never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent 'Thanks be to God and all His saints' and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently and forever banished and gone."
