The wren

Sheared corn-stalks bristle in fields of ice; rivers and streams hold still; the big lake is cranky and unwelcoming. We drift in the shadows of the festive season, and as I sit here at my desk and ponder the grey woods beyond, I hear a song in my head. It’s a traditional Irish folk ballad that the Clancy Brothers used to sing. Remember them? It has a stanza that goes something like;

“I have a little box under me arm
A tuppence or penny will do it no harm
For we are the boys who came your way
To bring you the wren on St. Stephen’s Day”.

While countries like Germany, the Netherlands and Scandinavia celebrate December 26 as Second Christmas Day, many places hold the day in honour of St. Stephen. Stephen, or Stephanos as he was known, apparently was a deacon in the early church of Jerusalem. He was accused of blasphemy by various synagogues, and as punishment was stoned to death, making him the first Christian martyr. Now, in Counties Galway and Kerry in Ireland, they take a different slant to the day and work in their special Irish way to give a bit of uplift to the sombreness of the season. They hold a Mummers Festival.

We sorta have the idea of mummers in our part of the world, but the mummers of Ireland on this occasion have a penchant for circling about in the company of what are called ‘wren boys’. As a way of celebration at this time of the year, they travel in tandem going door-todoor in their villages on ‘La Fheile Stiofan’ (St Stephens Day), also called the Day of the Wren.

Now this is where the song part comes in; lest we forgive, since it was back then in pre- Audubon days that the first stanza applies: “I met a wren upon the wall and up with me wattle and gave him a fall and brought him here to show you all”, refers to clobbering birds, then tying the bird cadavers to the tip of a holly branch, then busking around town for spare change to bury the poor things. Nice. A great way to celebrate a martyr’s day if I ever heard of one: And the reason to mention all of this?

While they now use a faux wren in today’s events, in a twist of irony, it was shopping malls that saved the day. Yep, saved the day for millions of birds by offering alternative distractions: While many believe the derivation of the name for Boxing Day has to do with bank holidays or the ‘alms box’ for offerings, there are more folks around that’ll tell you that ‘little box under me arm’ in the song—a little clay box to collect the tuppence and pennies for the bird’s burial—is the true derivative of the ‘box’ in Boxing Day. But how along the way, in the convoluted scheme of things, the stoning of a martyr— come slaughtering of wrens—can be turned into a post-Christmas consumer bonanza with door-buster deals, I can’t ever imagine.

Maybe my spending time settin’ and ponderin’ around the fire these days is not to be recommended just for the fluke chance that—well, combined with the lack of sunshine and vitamin D deprivation, over-ponderin’ can bring a body a trace close to the edge if you understand. Apparently it’s been known to happen.

But coming back to the wren: The bird is a family of seventy-five species of small, mainly brown in colour birds with often erect tails. I’m told we are likely to spot the winter wren in these parts since it stays with us year-round. Its song is one of the longest and highest pitched of Canadian birds. Maybe it’s a whine that occurs whenever the bird consults the Scandinavian Viking calendar. The Vikings held fast to their own calendar system long after the oldest Lunar calendar was constructed in Aberdeenshire, Scotland around 8,000 BCE. It was based on the moon cycles and, unlike the ancient Maya who had two separate years—the 260- day Sacred Round and the 365-day Vague Year (I’ve had the latter kind from time to time), the Viking calendar was based on two seasons; summer and winter. I’d say that a calendar that appeals to the winter wren – large print in plain-as-day green and white – requires a sense of humour when it comes to differentiating our seasons, especially when this ‘polar-vortex’ as they now chant in weather-speak is frankly a—well let’s just leave it that my snowshoes and ice-cleats will be close by the back door until at least Canada Day.