On the first day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree.
Well this is nice, I thought. She’s a pretty bird, and I’ve heard the eggs are quite good, though smaller than chicken eggs. I’ve read that pear trees need to be planted in early spring, so I’m hoping that it will be alright in its container until then. Just to be safe, I’m keeping it on the porch.
“What kind of pear is it?” I asked.
My True Love shrugged.
On the second day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree.
I ran out to the big box pet store and returned with a couple cages. I put the partridges in one and the doves in the other. The tree went on to the porch with the first.
“Good thing you bought a second,” I said, “because you need at least two to guarantee pollination.”
My True Love smiled.
On the third day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“Bresse chickens,” my True Love said. I was grateful they were already caged.
“Thank you, Love.” I stuffed the two newest turtledoves in with the other couple, and tossed the third partridge into the last cage. “You really want us to have some pears, don’t you?” The third tree went out on the porch as well.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“You’ve really got a thing for birds, don’t you?” I asked. “Good thing we’ve got a bit of garden out back. Should we build a coop?” The four calling birds had their own cage as well, and they happily chirped away. But with a half dozen French hens and another half dozen turtledoves, I thought we might need to begin construction soon. The four partridges were certainly getting plump on the feed I bought, and the back porch was a bit crowded.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“Now this is a bit more reasonable,” I admitted as I slid the rings on to my ring fingers, pinkies, and left index finger. The eight calling birds crowded their cage and we had to buy a second cage for the nine French Hens–“Bresse chickens,” My True Love reminded me.
We also purchased an extra cage for the eight turtle doves. The five partridges had needed another cage as well, and the entire living room began to take on a foul–pardon the pun–odor. I strung a clear sheet of heavy plastic against the house and moved the five trees under it.
“We need to buy lumber,” I announced, and began surfing the web for chicken coop blueprints.
My True Love said nothing.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“Love,” I insisted, “you’ve really gone too far. What are we going to do with these geese?” My fingers shone brilliantly–ten gold rings on ten digits–but we had twelve calling birds, twelve … Bresse chickens, I reminded myself dutifully … ten turtledoves in two cages, but because we didn’t want to break up the couples, one cage held four and the other six, and a half dozen partridges, all befouling the house.
My True Love shrugged and smiled and began filling a plastic kiddie pool with water..
“Oh well, there’ll be plenty of eggs. That’s for certain.”
On the seventh day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“But this is simply too much!” I cried. “The seven swans not only swim, but snap and hiss at the neighbors, their dogs, and cats. I placate the neighbors with eggs from our twelve geese and our eighteen Bresse chickens. But the honks of our geese drown out the sixteen calling birds. I wish they might be quieter, like the cooing of the twelve turtledoves or seven grouse. Yes, those are grouse, which are similar to partridges but not quite the same.” I wrangled the seventh tree under the clear plastic, then wondered how my coop, still only half-built, had already become obsolete in the face of such numbers.
My True Love didn’t say a word, only diligently collected the scraps from our half-built coop.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“How can you give me people?!” I stopped one of the women who led her Ayrshire into my garden-turned-barnyard. “You know there are laws against this sort of thing?” She shrugged and handed me a pail of milk as her cow chewed my lawn. My True Love had assembled a water trough out of coop scraps. The cows drank from it until the swans started swimming in it.
No amount of rings, I thought, though I glittered more than ever. Still, where would I put the milk? The refrigerator was full of eggs, and I feared we would need to convert the downstairs into an aviary.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
I holed up in the attic doing math on a pad stained with dove excrement. One of the maids brought a cow inside to warm her up, and the beast kicked over some cages. We managed to get the nine partridges and twenty-one Bresse chickens out to the coop. No help from the dancing ladies, thank you. But sixteen turtledoves and two dozen calling birds made their way upstairs. So did some of the … two dozen geese. We’ve been finding eggs between the cushions, on the pillows, under the beds… and my True Love? My True Love just smiles and gives the neighbors milk to go with the eggs to keep them from calling the police on our twenty-four hour racket.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me ten lords a-leaping. Yes leaping. Over the furniture, through the house, across the cowpat-strewn former garden. And another nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.
The lords and ladies quickly assembled a performance set to lowing, honking, and clucking. Well-choreographed, I think, though I’m no expert on modern dance. Not my thing, really. The eight ladies who weren’t matched up with lords began juggling and tossing and posing with the eggs and milk, so now there’s room in the refrigerator again, or so my True Love says. I haven’t come down from the attic yet.
That evening, my True Love placed rings twenty-six through thirty on my fingers. I can’t move them anymore. Good thing a simple waving away only requires the wrist.
I smell French toast. Or is that French hen? I’m sorry. Bresse chicken.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me eleven pipers. Piping. All of them. And yet another ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, and eight maids a-milking. Where is my True Love finding so many people willing to be sold? I’m sure there’s a law, and the constable will be knocking any moment. There are also an additional seven swans a-swimming and six geese a-laying. All of them adding to the ceaseless racket. Five golden rings aren’t enough. How about earplugs, a cot, and a pillow that’s not soiled, so that I could have one blessed night’s sleep? Oh, and yes, just for fun, four more calling birds, three more French hens, two more turtledoves, and–no, you don’t say? Another partridge in another pear tree. Joy!
I am surprised that we haven’t been arrested or evicted yet. If I check my True Love’s accounts, will I find that we are penniless? Destitute? But the pipers’ sound is soothing after the first four … five … six hours. The animals seem to have calmed somewhat, and the smell of chicken and waffles makes my mouth water even up here among the turtledoves a-pooping and calling birds a-flapping and a pair of maids a-milking who thought they were alone and then tittered away red-faced when they discovered that they weren’t.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me twelve drummers drumming. More loudly and consistently than the pipers piped. But then, of course, my True Love so thoughtfully gave me eleven more pipers to match the sound. And another ten lords a-leaping over the broken furniture and chicken coop, nine ladies dancing on the overturned trough, and eight more maids a-milking eight more Ayrshires a-lowing. Seven more swans a-swimming, six more geese a-laying, four more calling birds, three more French hens, two more turtledoves, and another partridge, all set loose in the house, now fully a barn. And another blessed pear tree under the plastic. Five more golden rings? My True Love has got to be a-kidding.
For the record, I’ve now hosted twelve drummers, twenty-two pipers, thirty lords and thirty-six ladies, some of whom also juggle. Forty maids and forty Ayrshire cows, though perhaps only thirty-eight as those two who stumbled across my attic hiding place seem to have disappeared entirely, along with their cows. Forty-two each of swans and geese. I have forty gold rings all safely tucked in a paper sack to pawn, either for bail or to start my life anew somewhere else. Thirty-six calling birds flapping through the eaves. We had thirty French hens, but many mouths to feed. The twenty-two turtledoves have mostly flown the coop as well. And the dozen partridges? Dinner, too, by the smell.
But it seems I also hosted a forty-eight hour music and dance extravaganza, during which time the drummers and pipers did a bit of community service and planted those dozen trees in that damp, muddy, well-trodden, well-fertilized earth. And it seems my True Love sold tickets, and food and drink besides. It was a smashing success, apparently, and all that remain in the new pear orchard are a real estate agent, my True Love, and I.
“The neighbor wants to buy,” the agent says. “The house is a barn now, true, but the land, the orchard, he wants it all. Strangely, he’s willing to pay top dollar.”
“Probably to get rid of us,” I say.
My True Love shows me the bank deposit slip from our impromptu celebration. It’s more money than I’ve ever seen.
I think I just had an epiphany. We may do it again–some place new– next year.
Nicanor Abbott 