Lo! Let's Sing Christmas Farm Songs!

My stocking hangs so heavy,

From the mantle ready

With goodies and gifts –

The sorta things, we wish for on Christmas.

Like a feather, harmonica,

An orange, maple candies,

And socks made from a llama….

Keep digging! – guitar picks,

A silver coin – and….

Tuck it under my bed in my favorite little case,

With all my other favorite keepsakes.

So we thank Santa, thank our Moms and Dads.

We thank them for the gifts –

And not the coal and sticks –

Their thanks for the good behavior we've had,

And their joy to see us glad.

I don’t know where my love for fun, frolicking verse came from, but it probably has something to do with my Irish heritage, Lewis Carroll’s Alice In Wonderland books, that poetry class I took twice in high school, and silly shows like Whose Line where my siblings and I laughed at comedians making up songs on the spot and daring to do so, ourselves. I also have a love for music. I listen to everything from rock and punk to folk and classical. Boy, do I love music: Young, Hiatt, Taylor, McMurtry, Earle.... I’ve also discovered a love for poetry in recent years – Oliver, Whitman, Dickinson, Berry, Dunn, Frost….

It’s not a day on the farm if I’m not singing some little improvised song to the critters or the carrots, to the trees, to the dusk. We follow the fox tracks and we knit rhymes up into our threads and spindle them along. A farm song is not quite a poem, but something more than just verse. They aren’t too serious, nor are they often remembered. They are sung to the wind and sometimes the wind blows back. They are meant for whomever hears. They pass the time and bring cheer to the mundane. And if there is a time for cheer, it’s at the doorstop of winter, Christmastime. The wind blows back, but our songs keep the draft out.

And so we sing some Christmas farm songs while we check the chickens and cut the firewood. We roast the rooster and we admire the tannenbaum, ensconced by peeling plaster walls with generations of floral wallpaper and exposed lathe.

In November I began clearing some pasture along a stone wall – I chainsawed a few dozen small white pines sprouting freely among the steeplebush and goldenrod, roots kept warm by dewberry vines. Early December mosied on in and I realized these are my Christmas trees for the next few years. I cleared around the keepers and now we call this the Christmas patch. I brought this year's tree in and lamented the industrial age: these modern tree stands are not designed for two-inch trunks! After hours of washers and screws and chunks of wood and gypsy curses, I tied the tree to the curtain rod with the Christmas lights, then continued the strands across the windows to make it pretty. Boughs of white pine and ornaments in the windows. 'Tis a wily bachelor's home!

I let my eyes blur as I stare into the lights and play guitar, and sing my favorite Christmas songs, out of tune, full of love and bursts of harmonica. O Holy Night / Joy To The World…. I try Tom Rosenthal’s Christmas Quiet – a farm song if I ever heard one. Sufjan Stevens does the hymnal classics wonderfully with his quirky indie style, but his originals are wild and fun. Santa Claus is coming / Hear that banjo strumming…. Kate Rusby’s festive lyrics mesh beautifully with the classic song structures and make me long to explore the sunny banks of the pastures.

Christmas songs are silly; they are soft. They are fun and wild like the winter wind. They get to the root of the matter. Heaven and Nature sing. We sing in chorus; we sit in silence. We think deeply; we feel forever. And that’s what I strive for when I sing Christmas farm songs to myself, my dogs, the chickens, and the pastures. Maybe someday I’ll record these for you to listen, but for now you can imagine some twang, some irreverence, and the fun that comes with dancing around the woodstove with a guitar strapped to your shoulders….

It’s Christmas on the farm!

And we bring a pine tree in,

And we stick it in the thing,

And we put the lights in.

It’s Christmas in the barn!

And we feed the chickens,

And we hum and we sing

To our cozy feathered friends – hey!

It’s Christmas on the farm!

And we go out in the snow,

And we let the dogs go

Where’er they wanna go.

And it’s Christmas in the fields!

With the rosy-cheeked sky,

And we thank the Big Guy

For sending us the small fry,

The one born in the manger.

He makes brothers out of strangers.

It’s Christmas on the farm!

And it’s Christmas in our hearts – hey!

The dogs jump merrily. We’re in a song! they bark. Then they lie on the couch and stare at me as I play it ten times over. They actually just want to go play in the snow. Isn’t that the point?

At the recent Sandwich Singers concert in town, Andy Davis recited a story about the three wise men wandering through Wales. We audience members were captivated as the lost wise men wandered on a beach beside the ocean into the rustic shack of a particular poet. The story stuck with me. Not just the realization that the wise men had to travel somewhere but that they did. And not a week later, the wise men visited me….

The three wise men

Came into my backyard.

I say “Can I help you?

For you’re in my pasture.”

I can’t water your rides

Unless they like to eat snow,

But please, good travellers,

Where do you go?"

I say, "Where ya goin’?"

They say, "We don’t know, and

We’re just following the North Star every night."

I pointed their direction.

"It’s just o’er that mountain."

They packed off with a thanks,

to chase their light.

And the very next morn',

The Christmas sun tries to rise.

We follow camel tracks

Leading through the pines.

The golden glow of the dawn,

And frankincense on the air,

And a whole lot of mirth

For everybody to share.

For some reason this year, my favorite Christmas song is Where Did My Christmas Tree Go? by the Venga Boys. There’s a strange sentiment to it, even though the lyrics make no sense. But the song has more heart than any nonsense you hear when you’re standing in line to buy cranberries and egg nog at Hannaford. I've danced in my truck, I've danced in my kitchen more to this song than any other Christmas song. Kurt Vile’s song about Santa mixes up presidents with reindeer and I’ll never get all the reindeer right now, as I’m convinced one of them is named Nixon. Amos Pitsch steals me with his psychedelic country ditty filled with bells and harmonies repeating “It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas todayyyyy.” I sing this over and over to get through the week. The bells ring my head in perpetuity, as the best Christmas songs do.

And when I go out into the barn to feed the baby cheeps, who are now chicken-sized and running around wondering what the big wide world will offer them come spring, I sing myself a simple question….

Do the chickens know it’s Christmastime?

All the chickens on their roosts,

And they’re trying to stay warm.

When the farmer goes away,

Someone grabs a little horn.

And the chickens start to sing,

And the chickens start to play.

Eggy bells do they ring!

Eggy yuletides do they say!

Do the chickens know it’s Christmastime?

All the chickens look outside,

Through the frosty window glaze,

Where Jack Frost takes wild ride,

Nipping critters’ icy face.

All the chickens give their thanks,

All the chickens start to pray.

Eggy presents do they give!

Eggy yuletides do they say!

Do the chickens know it’s Christmastime?

Yes, the chickens know it’s Christmastime!

With this, my festive neighbors: Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and everything between! Please stomp your boots and blow your horns, squint into the Christmas sky with wonder and blow kisses to the sun! Stoke the fires! Wassail! Dance the festive jigs, eat the feasts, feel the soft and somber, let the warmth of the season make us merry!

Bring the winter in gently; and may it be gentle to us, as well.