Pears, People and Poultry

Of all the gifts given in “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” five involve nothing but poultry, another poultry in a pear tree, five others gifts of people, and one gift of five golden rings—not counting the multiples of these gifts along the trek from Christmas Day to the Feast of the Epiphany. Numerous web sites offer interpretations ranging from the interesting to the silly, usually promoting some version of this song as a secret Catholic code to promote that faith during 16th-17th century English persecution—and all with no evidence. Even if true, though, it’s an odd set of symbols.

Here’s a rough consensus:

Partridge in a pear tree—Jesus protecting the faithful, as a mother bird feigning injury to lure away predators. The pear tree harks back to the garden of Eden. That’s what the web sites claim, anyway.

Two turtle doves—the Old and New Testament. Also known as the mourning dove in the Western hemisphere. Interesting.

Three French hens—faith, hope, and love. Especially interesting, since I learned these in childhood as faith, hope and charity. Values change, it seems.

Four calling birds—the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Just repeating what I read.

Five golden rings--the first five books of the Old Testament (the Torah/the Pentateuch—the Books of Moses). Yes, I realize this repeats in part the turtle dove point.

Six geese a-laying—the six days of creation. Yes, I know creation had seven days, including a day of rest. If you haven’t yet thought these interpretations are quite contrived, perhaps you’re now beginning to see my point. On the other hand, this introduces the idea of reproduction—or at least breakfast.

Seven swans a-swimming—the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, as described by Paul. I can at least see why we might compare these to swans. Why they have to be swimming, I can’t imagine.

Eight maids a-milking—the Beatitudes (Blessed are the…etc…). Here’s the interesting shift---we move from poultry to people. Why? Further, back to the geese, these women are producing. But what? No mention of what they’re milking—cows? goats? sheep? anything? Are they then wet nurses? They wouldn’t be “maids” then (ruling out immaculate conceptions, of course).

Nine ladies dancing—the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit. Again, quite contrived—we’re really jumping around here. But note the clear delineation—these are ladies, not maids. Does this mean they’re upper class (but still given as gifts, possessions)? Or married? If so, potential production again…

Ten lords a-leaping—the Ten Commandments. Ever go to two churches of different faiths? As a former church musician, I have, and guess what—THE Ten Commandments change depending on where you are, in wording, order, and substance. Moses most be going nuts. Apparently God changes his mind a lot. No wonder we got away from engraving those things in stone. And why “lords a-leaping"? Got me there.

Eleven pipers piping—the eleven faithful Apostles, not counting Judas Iscariot. I told you this was contrived.

Twelve drummers drumming—depends on what you read. Twelve tribes of Israel? Twelve Apostles (here they are again)? Some say the Twelve points of the Apostles’ Creed (those guys are ubiquitous!).

One web site reports no “accurate evidence” supports this—relying, I guess, on “inaccurate evidence” instead. Another site admits no evidence supports the idea that the song is a secret message of faith, but goes on to note “no substantive evidence disproves it either.” By that “logic,” as no substantive evidence disproves the idea that Martians planted the song as a secret manifesto to their eventual conquest of Earth, we shouldn’t rule out the possibility. Seems to me a secret song about Christianity probably wouldn’t start it with “On the first day of Christmas.” But that’s just me.

So what do we have here?

It’s a hell of gift giving binge—184 poultry, 140 people, 40 gold rings, and 12 fruit trees. If all of those are gifts in the sense of “keepers,” then we have a problem. How will we support them? Eleven and two-thirds people have to share one pear tree. Each person can have 1.314 birds—wait a minute. Isn’t that pi? Is this then some secret mathematical puzzle? Hmmm. Those people need clothing and housing in addition to food, but those gold rings amount to only 0.2857 rings per person, so I predict economic disaster.

Strangely ironic, isn’t it? All those lavish gifts to celebrate the birth of the king in a stable, whose “kingdom is not of this world.” Of course, at the Epiphany, the Wise Men—usually counted as three, although Christian scripture only notes three gifts—brought the precious gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The gold probably came in handy, and perhaps the frankincense and myrrh helped the stable smell better, but as myrrh should be kept away from children, they were really taking a chance. Herod’s influence?

Doesn’t add up. Let’s see what we do have.

The golden rings are clearly a turning point. Until then, we just have poultry milling about. The rings, however, usher in a flurry of activity. “Calling birds” may be ambiguous, but make no mistake about geese a-laying! Those geese are straining to produce those eggs. Those a-swimming swans are doing laps. Those a-milking maids are filling pail after pail, those lords and ladies a-kicking up their heels something fierce, and those pipers and drummers a-making a racket clearly audible from Scotland.

I propose this is simply a marriage, if a lavish one. After a bit of poultry, we award every finger of the hand a wedding ring—overkill, to be sure. But from that moment proceeds a flurry of activity, including dairy products, dancers, and musicians. Many people have argued that this marriage is Jesus with the faithful, but if so, the choice of symbols is just weird. Come on. It’s a children’s song. After all, the Brits also celebrated Twelfth Night by baking a cake with a hidden bean and a pea to determine the “King of the Bean” and his queen. Anyone want to take a whack at the religious message there?

But for those who need a religious allegory, here’s my suggestion—consider the Parable of the Ten Virgins in Matthew 25:1-13. Five wise virgins are ready for the arrival of the bridegroom—the manifestation of Jesus as God incarnate at the Epiphany? Fits in nicely with the five golden (wedding?) rings, and five of the gifts represent classes and genders of people. Excluding the partridge in the pear tree, presumably Jesus the bridegroom, that leaves five gifts of poultry—the five foolish virgins. As long as we’re contriving, let’s not forget that this is the darkest time of the year, a festival of light, and the parable is, after all, about saving oil for the lamps. The Maccabees might have something to say about that too.

I once heard a speaker expound at length how Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” was that group’s reaching out and reaffirmation of their Christian faith. Had this speaker attempted a tad of research, he might have discovered lead singer Robert Plant’s explanation that it "was some cynical aside about a woman getting everything she wanted all the time without giving back any thought or consideration. The first line begins with that cynical sweep of the hand...and it softened up after that. I think it was the Moroccan dope!"

The silly goose.

Finally, Skiing!

Well, I finally got to ski again.

Friday night, as I was walking my dog, my first thought was “Hmmm….looks like almost enough to ski on,” followed by, “Great…and tomorrow’s the first day of deer season.”

Nonetheless, after considering the snowfall around my home Saturday morning, I decided to go for it. I loaded up the skis, poles and boots, called my dog, and off we went to the wildlife preserve (to avoid hunters--unsuccessfully, as it turned out).

Not great skiing by any means—3-6 inches, but wet, heavy, just clumping up. Still, I was hungry enough for skiing that I didn’t care, so on I trudged.

Yes, trudged. Although I run in the off-season, getting back to skiing always abruptly reminds me that skiing using a different set of muscles. At least I got to give them a bit of a work-out. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, I’m sure.

Something wanted badly that isn’t going well, but worth still pursuing. Has a familiar ring.

The Game

Twenty some years ago, when I was finally able to move to the country, I was fascinated by all the sights I loved so much, especially sighting wildlife: “Oh look! A deer!” “Look! Wild turkeys!” “A fox!” “Raccoons!” and so forth. I’m still glad for the change, but long since this has moved to “Would you get your damn ass out of the road?! I’ve got to get to work!!” A few days ago, I had to stop for four coyote pups considering negotiating the road, the “leader” poised with one paw raised (OK, I admit—this was wicked awesome cute).

Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.

Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s rain ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.

But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.

I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.

For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.

Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.

Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.

Fifteen Tons (and a garden rake)

Each day, as I look through my windshield up the 150+ feet to the road, I feel a sense of pride. The driveway itself might not appear so inspirational, as it’s only a smooth layer of crushed stone. It IS, however, a smooth layer of crushed stone—15 tons worth, all raked out by yours truly with a garden rake.

A contractor constructed the original driveway (and the utility pole, the septic tank, and such), laying crushed limestone by driving slowly while gradually dumping the cargo, but in a few years, the stone sank into the clay soil, particularly when heavy fuel trucks hazarded the drive. So, years later, a new neighbor, also a contractor, offered to drive his small dump truck to the quarry for a load of crusher—and the problem was solved with a new layer of stone.

Sort of. Over the years, erosion chipped away until the ruts were so bad that negotiating the drive required noting high ground for the tires. My neighbor had moved, so I turned to the phone book late one afternoon.

I explained my problem, and started asking questions. “Hang on,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll get the guy you need to talk to.” OK.

When “the guy” (who turned out to be the owner of the business) came to the phone, I started again. After asking me questions about area and depth, he gave me a very reasonable price on five tons of crusher—but wasn’t sure if he could do it that day. “That’s fine,” I explained, understanding this was late in the day, and the job certainly wasn’t urgent. “No, no—I just need to find if we have a free truck” (they were out at construction sites). “Let me call you back in five minutes.” Gotta love a guy who gets business—here’s a customer, checkbook in hand, ready to deal. Get the man some stone.

He didn’t call back—he showed up 20 minutes later (impressive, since his business is 15 minutes away). We talked, I explained where I wanted the stone, he said he’d try, did an awesome spread—and noted that he’d given me a few extra tons. I could see that. Roughly, he grabbed a truck with two tons of crusher, added the five tons, and dumped what he had. From our chat, he was clearly building a new business, and I was certainly a satisfied customer.

I spent a few weeks raking out the stone with a rake—not an easy task, working on it a few hours a day (and nursing my sore muscles). But, as the sea of stone gradually settled, I realized I would need another load to finish the job.

I called the same business. This time, I got a very pleasant, witty young woman who, in the course of our conversation, revealed that she had recently been hired—the business was growing. I placed my request for another five tons of crusher, and by chance, it was again late in the afternoon. As before, my point that I didn’t need delivery that day was rebuffed, they’d find someone, and 20 minutes later, a very large dump truck arrived, driven by a polite but clearly not happy man. He surveyed the job. “I don’t like to spread uphill,” he noted, and given the size of his truck, I could see his point—we’d definitely be testing that thing’s center of gravity. “That’s fine,” I explained. “Just spread downhill and back up over it.” He agreed.

When he had done this, a significant load of crusher still lay in the dump truck’s bed. “Just leave the rest up here in a pile,” I asked, gesturing toward a depression near the road. “I expect to rake it out anyway.” He hesitated, then got into his truck, gingerly backed to the indicated spot (carefully avoiding the mailbox) and dumped the entire contents—clearly far more than the five tons I’d ordered (I estimate at least eight tons). “I gave you a little extra,” he said. “Thanks,” I answered, paid the man, and let him get home.

I’m reminded of graduate school in Cambridge. My housemates and I were struggling with difficult studies and difficult finances in an expensive corner of the world. We split up duties as best we could for mutual benefit, mine including visiting Boston’s Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall one a week for produce and seafood. This was a two day affair, Friday and Saturday, but I always went on Saturdays, around four o’clock, an hour before the end of the market. I’d walk around, buying nothing, just seeing what was available. Before long, though, merchants would realize they had unsold fish and fruit that wasn’t going to keep another week, and suddenly bananas were $1 a bunch, fresh seafood ridiculously inexpensive. Nor did I need to push my way through to the bargain table, since other merchants immediately took up the tune. I returned each week with two grocery bags full of food, $10 worth, all I could carry back home via the subway.

“Tons of work” certainly took on new meaning. Even wearing heavy work gloves, I had blisters all over both hands. I tried to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to move some of that stone pile, but I found that so unproductive that I settled for just gradually raking it down the drive. I’d work for a while and check the time—oh, just five minutes. Sigh. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places. But every day a little more, and then every day a little adjustment, and eventually—done.

Now it’s a work of art. And now, as usual, I have a ton of work to do, and I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish it. But I have a rake.