Happy Colonial New Year! Wait... What?

It might be a good excuse to rejuvenate my New Year's resolutions and evaluate how I'm doing with my "Word for the Year", but why not take advantage of a little history to do just that?

Did you know that, back in the day when the Colonies were young, it wasn't until 1752

that everyone got on board with the Gregorian Calendar and January First began each new year? For centuries, the New Year belonged to March 25th due to the fact that everyone followed the Julian calendar, which emphasized March 25th as the date of Jesus' conception. However, not only is that questionable (since theologians suggest Jesus was likely born in October), but the whole equinox thing was kind of a mess. In fact, to straighten things out, they had to lose eleven days in September—POOF!—just to get the calendar properly aligned.

Here's the thing, most of the world switched over to our "modern" Gregorian calendar in the 1500s, but it was another two centuries before the British joined the New Year party, because--you know England--they've always been sort of starchy about their traditions. Yet they eventually had to face it. The messed-up calendars affected trade and banking and even George Washington's birthday. (More on that in a sec.) 

So in 1752 Parliament passed the Calendar Act of 1750, and January 1st became the official New Year beginning in 1752.

What I find funny isn't that they changed the date so much as what the new year meant. It wasn't a time to celebrate Baby New Year coming in with a smooch under the mistletoe or tossing confetti. It was a time to collect the rents, pay the tax man, and handle annual paychecks. (Well, yeah for that last one anyway.) 

They did have a few fun traditions—some mumming and wassailing and visiting friends. Oh—and about George Washington... He changed his birthday from February 11th under the old Julian calendar to February 22 under the new one. I'm not sure what the people did who were born during that eleven-day elimination period in September. Maybe the summer loving ones grabbed a date closer to August and the harvest lovers aimed for October. I know which way I'd have gone.

again.

Naomi Musch 

https://naomimusch.com/

Before you go, mark your Gregorian calendars for Monday-Friday, Feb. 10-14 to get The Deepest Sigh (Echoes of the Heart, Book One) for FREE! Books Two and Three will also be on sale, but for FIVE DAYS ONLY!  

On Sale February 10-14, 2020

Legend of the Flying Canoe ~ A New Year's Cautionary Tale

Happy New Year, Colonial Quills Readers!

To celebrate the New Year in an Old World way,

I'll share with you a brief retelling and embellishment of the 

Legend of the Flying Canoe

or La-Chasse Galerie

a cautionary tale of French Canadian folklore, originally written by Honoré Beaugrand in 1900, based upon other legends.

La Chasse-galerie by Henri Julien, 1906, Museé national des beaux-arts du Québec

Many years ago, on a deep winter's night in Canada, New Year's Eve to be exact, seven lumberjacks dreamed wistfully of their loved ones back home in Quebec. The snow had fallen steadily all the day long until it was so deep the men ceased their work, exhausted. They could only huddle around the fire and imagine the good times their loved ones were having in their celebrations.

"Ahh...I miss my woman," their leader Baptiste Durand said. "Right now she is probably dancing, laughing, eating..."

"I am afraid someone will steal my beloved Élise and marry her while I am away," his nephew Martin bemoaned. "I would go there and remind her of my love, if only I could."

"Oui. We would go." A murmur of assent by all the lumberjacks went up to the sky with the sparks of their fire.

"But how?" said one of them. "The rivers are frozen. Snow lies thick across the roads. Even the trees shiver with the cold. We would freeze to death."

That's when a howl raised in the distance, and soon the panting of a tall gray wolf could be heard just beyond the ring of firelight. The beast stepped into the light. "So you want to go back to your sweethearts, eh?" His voice was gruff and sly. "I can make it so for you. I can send you in a magical bark canoe that will fly you past the stars this night, straight to the arms of your friends and lovers in Quebec, but..."

"But?" The men edged closer, eager to hear the wolf's stipulation.

The eyes of the wolf narrowed and gleamed against the fire's blaze, and they knew at once that he was the devil. "You must not speak the name of God," said the wolf, his lip lifting in a snarl that revealed long fangs, "and you must not touch any crosses or steeples. You must also return by dawn. If you do not keep this agreement, you will forfeit your souls."

The men hardly noticed the heat of the wolf's breath sending steam spiraling into the darkness, as they quickly agreed.

Only Martin hesitated, for his mother had taught him not to listen to the voice of the wolf, but his uncle Baptiste quickly persuaded him to go. "You don't want some other man to steal Élise after all, do you?"

Martin shook his head and joined them.

The wolf lay down and stretched comfortably near the fire as the men settled into the canoe. They felt the earth fall away as the magical craft rose into the air. Soon, being expert canoe men, they grasped their bearings and picked up their paddles. They embarked with a joyful song as they paddled away across the heavens, and in a short time they arrived at the home of one of their friends in Quebec, where a festive party was taking place. Fiddlers played a rollicking tune, while people dressed in best array danced and sang.

The lumberjacks spilled through the door, joining their regale, and soon they all found their wives and sweethearts and kissed them well.

The night wore on. It seemed that five o'clock came much too soon, but alas, the time had come for the men to bid their loved ones farewell and be on their way. Martin had gotten a promise from Élise, so he, most of all, did not want to be ruin their pact with the wolf.

"It's time to embark!" He called the others together, only his uncle Baptiste was not to be found among them. Time ticked by, and the men began to panic. Finally they discovered Baptiste, drunk and asleep on the floor of a local establishment. Knowing his proclivity to profanity and clumsiness when he imbibed, they gagged and tied him in the bottom of the bark canoe, and soon they were sailing off into the heavens.

Just before dawn, however, Baptiste awoke with a start. The gag worked free and he used the Lord's name in vain.

"Non!" cried the men, as the canoe lurched. One of them reached out, grasping at anything which might steady them, and accidentally touched the cross at the top of a church steeple.

The men all shouted in despair, and Martin cried out to God as the canoe plunged downward toward the trees, spilling them into the darkness. Only the howl of a wolf met their ears from below.

They struck the ground in a whirlwind of light, and a moment later, Martin opened his eyes. He lay in his bunk in their forest shanty and there, across the room, came the rumbling snores of his uncle Baptiste. Martin jerked upright and stared about the familiar cabin. A row of smelly socks hung stiff and dry on a line above the wood stove, just like always. Brisk morning air cut through Martin's shivering shoulders, just as it did each morning before he pulled his wool shirt over his long, heavy underwear. A little gasp of joy burst out of him, startling the others awake.

They came to one and all, each man's eyes widening with surprise that laced together fear and relief. They stared wordlessly at their surroundings. Had it been true then? Had they really flown precariously away, but been returned whole? One man felt his chest, testing to see if he were alive. Another muttered a prayer. Were their souls intact?

Martin and his uncle exchanged a long look. Perhaps that old wolf was merely a figment of their imaginations, or... maybe Divine intervention had given them another chance.

It was New Year's day, after all.

~ The End ~

I have a lot to look forward to in the coming year. If you care to hear about upcoming books, historical research, the writing life, and some family fun, I invite you to listen to my recent podcast interview on The Bookshop at the End of the Internet.

Happy New Year, Everyone!
Naomi Musch

Happy New Year and a Good Apple Howling To You! (Plus an update on the "Shrub" Beverage Project)

Hullabaloo is what has marked the bringing in of the New Year for centuries, even as far back as ancient times. For fur traders and pioneers in the American wilderness, it was a way to drive out the drear of the long winter, with excessive drink, gambling, wresting, and firing guns into the night. Even in genteel colonial societies the occasion was marked with noise.

For many, a common way to welcome the New Year has been with the ringing of bells. Here's an excerpt from "In Memoriam", Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem that celebrates the eagerness of dispensing with the past and moving on to a brighter, newer future:

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow;

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the new.

Church bells chimed the New Year from many a steeple to welcome change or hearken some good news, but in some places, the ringing of the bells meant more. It meant a lot of superstition. For to some, bells might have been used almost as a charm. Sometimes rung to ward off evil, bell-ringing was frequently done at the foot of a dying person's bed, "to drive away evil spirits…ready to seize their prey or at least molest or terrify the soul in its passage". Yikes!

Then there was the New Year's wassail. I love me a good wassail—the beverage anyway—mulled cider, hot and spicy. But the wassail was also part of a bell ringing ceremony. Colonists as well as folk around the world in Colonial times and before thought they could only guarantee a good apple crop for making said wassail if they traipsed out on New Year's Eve to the orchard and partook in a ceremony of hullabaloo to "encourage" the trees to bear a heavy crop the following fall.

The ceremony, often referred to as Wassailing, or better yet, an Apple Howling (see where we're going here?) began with a procession of bell ringers and noise makers making their way to the orchard, carrying a big bowl of wassail. Once there, they would encircle a select apple tree and thrash it with sticks. (You've got to wonder how that "encouraged" the tree to bear. Maybe they meant to coax the tree into producing a bumper crop in much the same way a strict Dickensian schoolhouse master might "encourage" a small boy to learn his letters…)

So, anyhow, they beat the poor tree. While so doing, they would pour the wassail onto the roots to further stimulate it, and recite this lovely little verse several times while so doing:

Stand fast root, bear well top,

Pray God send us a good howling crop;

Every twig, apples big;

Every bough, apples enou;

Hats full, caps full,

Full quarter sacks full.

This might then be accompanied by more bells as well as some gunshots and whatever noise-makers the good orchard folk brought along—be it pots and pans or dustbin lids. If you'd get a kick out of seeing an Apple Howling nowadays, there are Youtube videos and places you can travel to and join in the festive event. (Not sure that one's going on my bucket list…)

I have apple trees too, but I think I'll come up with another plan to encourage production that bypasses a cold New Year's Apple Howling. Nevertheless, please…do pass me the wassail anyway.

~~~~~

Speaking of BEVERAGES, here's an update to my post last month on making SHRUB, the colonial fruit and vinegar refreshment.

After letting the shrub marinate (for lack of a better term) in my fridge for over three weeks, I strained out the berries (doing it a couple of times until the juice ran clear). I then added a couple cups of sugar and cooked it until it was thoroughly dissolved. This I chilled, and then it was ready to try out.

Double Straining

My family sampled it with a topper of sparkling water and a splash of hesitation. Most agreed, it was interesting and rather good. Some liked it thin (only a couple of teaspoons to a glass of sparkling water), and some liked it a little stronger (a couple of tablespoons). I say it was good and refreshing! I will tell you though, you can definitely taste the vinegar. I'd like to do this again with strawberries and be true to the measurements. I used a little too much vinegar to fruit in my ratio. (It should be even.)

So here's to you, fair readers! Happy New Year!

A Toast with One of My Lads