It always happened when nights got shorter and you felt the first nip in the air. I’m talking about the late 70s to the mid 80s.

I was living the wild life in the East Village then and was in a band with the unfortunate name of Turner and Kirwan of Wexford. The music was intense and original, if somewhat off the wall in keeping with the times; but the name was tongue-tripping and incomprehensible to Americans, a considerable drawback in the music business.

Anyway, when the leaves would start skirling about Tompkins Square, I knew it was time to pick up a copy of the Echo. This was no easy task for things Irish weren’t in much demand on Hispanic Avenue B. It would necessitate a hike over to Sixth Avenue where an enterprising newsagent from Bombay stocked some copies for Paddies who frequented the Lion’s Head and Bells of Hell.

Over a couple of pints I’d compare prices offered by the various travel agents for the Christmas trip home.

I’d have to plan early, as my income was low to subliminal. Weekend gigs at the Bells kept me in rent money, but to get the bucks for the airfare, and the wherewithal to persuade the boys at home that I was making it big, would take some Bronx welfare.

And so I’d put in calls to Phil at Durty Nelly’s, Sean at the Archway or John at the Village Pub. Invariably, these gentlemen would help out with gigs on a Sunday afternoon or a dead Tuesday, when we wouldn’t offend too many regulars. For there was an unwritten law back then amongst emigrants that everybody deserved the Christmas trip home, and if you had a bit extra, you wouldn’t stint on helping out those who had less.

I haven’t been home for Christmas in 19 years and I doubt if I’ll ever go again. The old folks are gone and, with them, the house; and though I’d be more than welcome at my brother’s or sister’s, it’s not quite the same, is it?

I can’t say I’ve ever totally embraced the American Christmas. It doesn’t have the vast end-of-year exhalation and orgy of relaxation of the Irish one. In any case, it’s over in flash. All one has to do is ignore the commercial buildup, drink more than usual on Christmas Eve and have a hair of the dog with the presents in the morning and, before you know it, you’re back working again.

In the years I was an “illegal alien” and couldn’t risk leaving the country, I went through all manner of horrors in December. Now it doesn’t really bother me except for those 36 yuletide hours when all manner of memories arise.

Which begs the question: how long does it take before you stop looking over your shoulder to Ireland, and do you ever totally?

My own feeling is that if you don’t go back within seven years, forget about it. By then you’ve switched media masters and shed your London-Dublin political and social conditioning. It’s why we’ll never have elected Diaspora members in the Irish Senate – Sein Fein being much more popular out here than any of the mainstream parties.

Politics aside, you’ll know you’ve hit critical mass when you become more interested in the Mets than Manchester United, more focused on Labor Day Weekend than the August bank holiday.

I’ll spend a bittersweet day in Wexford on the upcoming Back 47 Irish tour. I’ll visit the old folks’ graves but not the house; I couldn’t bear to see my mother’s meticulously laid out garden running riot.

Then I’ll have a blast with family and friends at the Talbot Hotel gig, and in the hung-over dawn, I’ll look out Wexford Harbor from my hotel room – a tourist in my hometown.

But at least I can be there, unlike the many undocumented Irish for whom we’ll all just have to work harder. Around this time of year, many of them will buy the Echo and look longingly at the ads for the Christmas trip home.