Merry Christmas from The Besseys

In 2009, I posted some Christmas poems written in the 1960's by my Uncle George Bessey and my grandfather, Arthur "Bappa" Bessey; who worked for Great Northern Paper Company at the time.  These poems were published in the "Pittston Farm Weekly"--GNPC's newsletter.

Two years ago, in an attempt to preserve family history (and make it entertaining, too...) I made voice recordings of most of these poems and burned them onto CD's for my closest friends and family members.

And then... I forgot about them.

The last two years have been unlike anything I've ever experienced-- or intended to experience.   I've been busy.  Preoccupied.  Right out straight, if truth be told. 

But what takes precedence?  Work?  Community involvement?  Activism?  Or...should 'family matters' be what really matter?

Christmas comes but once a year.  And I think once a year is 'just about right' for how often a Bessey family poem should be read.  And enjoyed.

I hope you like this holiday poem which was written by my uncle George Bessey, published in GNP's Pittston Farm Weekly, and passed along to me and my kin to be enjoyed by you and yours.

Merry Christmas, from the Besseys of Maine to You.

********************************
What a Night Before Christmas!


‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.

“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!

They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:

‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’

She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!

To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.

And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!

And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”

“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!

He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!

“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
'Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.

The Rapo-genus Christmas Ball

Today I am posting The Rapo-genus Christmas Ball, a Christmas Poem written by my uncle, George Bessey. The symbolism of this poem is amazing. The river drives on the Kennebec, Piscataquis and other Maine waterways were legendary, and an integral part of Maine's logging history. The men who worked these drives were brave and hardworking, and when they had cause to relax and socialize, they were still 'men's men', as evidenced in this classic poem.

My grandfather, Arthur Bessey, was memorialized in John Gould's 'Maine Lingo' as a 'picker of the rear', a boss man whose crew often cleaned stray logs from the eddies and logans (small coves of still water, derived from the Scottish 'lochan') after the main drive had passed downstream. I clearly remember the last river drive on the Kennebec. The drives were halted in order to protect the ecosystems of our rivers. The down side of that decision is that all lumber from that day forward has been conveyed from forest to mill via log trucks or railway. I understand the decision to change the mode of transport from our rivers to our roadways, but I feel a sadness at the ending of such an amazing tradition, nonetheless. Here, in humorous and colorful poetry, is an excellent analogy of those long-gone drives, performed by some of the men who were real participants. Real men.

Back in the 'good old days'...


THE RAPO-GENUS CHRISTMAS BALL

There had been no social doings since the drive had passed the flume,
And the section from Seboomook to the Chutes was rather blue;
So the folks at Rapo-genus, where there’s rum enough and room,
Arranged a Christmas function and invited Murphy’s crew.
The folks at Rap-genus hired Ezra Hawson’s hall.
And posted up the notice for “Our Yearly Christmas Ball.”
Now Murphy’s crew was willing and they walked the fifteen miles,
And arrived at Rapo-genus wearing most benignant smiles.
The genial floor director waited near the outer door,
And pleasantly suggested they remove the boots they wore.
He said that Rapo-genus wished to make of this affair
An elegant occasion, “reshershay and debonair;”
So it seemed the town’s opinion, after many long disputes,
That ‘twas time to change the custom and exclude the spike-toed boots.
He owned ‘twas rather drastic and would cause a social jar
‘Twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin Depsconnequah,
“But, ‘tis settled,” so he told them, “that nary lady likes
To do these fancy dances with a gent what’s wearin’ spikes.
So I asks ye very kindly, but I asks ye one and all,
To leave your brogan calkers on the outside of this hall.”
“This ‘ere is sort o’ sudden,” said the boss of Murphy’s crew,
“Jest excuse us for a minute, but we don’t know what to do.
We’ve attended social functions at the Upper Churchill Chutes,
An’ the smartest set they had there was a-wearing spike-sole boots.
Excuse us for the mention, but we feel compelled to say,
‘Tisn’t fair to shift a fashion all of a sudden, this ‘ere way;
An’ the local delegation, when it came with the invite,
Omitted partunt leathers in its mention of tonight.
So I guess ye’ll have to take us with these spikes upon our soles,
We can’t appear in stockin’s, cause the most of us have holes.”
But the genial floor director guarded still the outer door
And declared that “gents with spikers weren’t allowed upon the floor.”
He said ‘twas very awkward that special guests should thus
Be kept in outer darkness, and he didn’t want a fuss.
But as long as Rapo-genusites had issued their decree
He hadn’t any option, “as a gent with sense would see.”
So he passed his ultimatum, “Ye must shed them spike-soled boots!
For we hain’t the sort of humstrums that ye’ll find at Churchill Chutes.”
Then up spoke Smoky Finnegan, the boss of Murphy’s crew,
Said he, “The push at Churchill sha’nt be slurred by such as you.
We’re gents that’s very gentle an’ we never make a fuss,
But in slurrin’ folks at Churchill ye are also slurrin’ us.
We have interduced the fashions up at Churchill quite a while,
An’ no Rapo-genus half-breeds have the right to trig our style.
If ye’ve dropped the vogue of spikers at the present Christmas ball
We will start the fashion over, good and solid, that is all!
So, mister, please excuse us, but ye’ll open up your sluice,
Or God have mercy on ye if I turn these gents here loose!”
Then the genial floor director shouted back within the room,
“Ho, men of Rapo-genus, here is trouble at the boom!”

But even as he shouted, with a rush and crush and roar,
Like a bursting jam of timber Murphy’s angels stormed the door.
Then against them rose the sawyers of the Rapo-genus mill,
Who rallied for the conflict with a most intrepid will,
But by new decree of fashion they were wearing boughten suits
And even all the boomsmen had put off their spike-sole boots.
So that gallant crew of Murphy’s simply trod upon their feet,
And backward, howling, cursing, they compelled them to retreat.
The air was full of slivers as the spikes chewed the floor,
And the man whose feet were punctured didn’t battle anymore.
“Now, fellers, boom the outfit,” shouted Finnegan, the boss,
His choppers formed a cordon and they swept the room across;
The people who were standing at the walls in double ranks,
Were pulled and thrown to center at the order, “Clear the banks!”
Then they herded Rapo-genus in the middle of the room,
And slung themselves around it like a human pocket boom.
All the matrons and the maidens were as frightened as could be
When Finnegan commanded, “Now collect the boomage fee!”
At a corner of the cordon they arranged a sorting-gap
And one by one the women were escorted from the trap,
And without a word of protest, as they drifted slowly through,
They paid their toll in kisses to the men of Murphy’s crew.
And at last when all the women had been sorted from the crowd,
The men were “second raters,” so the boss of Murphy’s vowed.
“We will raft them down as pulp-stuff!” and he yelled to close about,
“Now, my hearties, start the wind-lass,” ordered he, “We’ll warp ‘em out!”
Through the doorway, down the stairway, grim and struggling thronged the press,
--All the brawn of Rapo-genus fighting hard without success,
They were herded down the middle of the Rapo-genus street,
--If they tried to buck the center they were bradded on the feet;
They were yarded at the river; Murphy’s peavies smashed the ice,
Though the men of Rapo-genus couldn’t smash that human vise
That held them, jammed them, forced them! When the water touched their toes,
Then at last they fought like demons for to save their boughten clothes.
But as fierce as Murphy’s hearties, and their spikers helped them win,
For they kicked and spurred their victims and they dragged them shrieking in.
Then with water to their shoulders there they kept them in the wet
While they gave them points on breeding and the rules of etiquette.
And at midnight ‘twas decided by a universal vote
That the strict demands of fashion do not call or vests or coat;
That ‘twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin Depsconnequah
Shirts of red and checkered flannel are the smartest form, by far.
And that gents may chew tobacco was declared in all ways fit
If they only used discretion as to when and where they spit.
And above all future cavil, sneer or jeer or vain disputes,
High was set this social edict: “Gents may wear their spike-sole boots.”
Then the men of Rapo-genus and the men of Murphy’s crew
They dissolved their joint convention--they were near dissolving, too!
And to counteract the action of the water on the skin
They applied some balmy lotion to the proper parts within.
Then they danced till ruddy morning, and their drying garments steamed,
And awful was the shrinkage of those seven dollar suits!
And the feet of Murphy’s woodsmen gashed and slashed and clashed and seamed,
Till a steady rain of slivers rained behind those bradded boots.
--And all disputes of etiquette were buried once for all,
At that Christmas social function, the Rapo-genus Ball.

George Allen Bessey 1926-1976


**********************************
Top photo courtesy of Frost Pond camps, www.frostpondcamps.com and was taken at the Ripogenus Dam.

What a Night Before Christmas!

It's Christmas: A time for family, for giving and for tradition. And in this household, it is a time for writing poems!

A few years ago I wrote a poem to read at my family's Thanksgiving feast. It was a silly ditty that showcased each of the family members gathered at my parents' home that day. The poem was a big hit, and what started as a one-time occurence has snowballed into a tradition. A tradition that I once considered uniquely mine.

I have written at least one Christmas poem each year since 2,000. Sometimes I write one to commemorate a gathering of the Peases, and occasionally my Christmas poem features the Bessey side. These poems are not serious attempts at poetry. They are simple rhyming verses made up on the spur of the moment, designed to entertain my friends and my family members.

But what I once thought was my own stamp of originality on the Besseys' holiday season has been proven to be an older family tradition, instead. It is one that makes me proud. I have discovered that my uncle, George Bessey, and my grandfather, Arthur 'Bappa' Bessey, were writers of silly ditties, too. As many members of my family once did, George and Bappa worked for Great Northern Paper Company back in the 1950's and 1960's, and lived for weeks and months at a time in that company's woods camps. The winters in our northern forests were long and desolate, and these two men passed their leisure time composing poems to delight and entertain their fellow loggers, cooks and clerks. As you will soon see, their senses of humor were rather ribald. (Finally! I have an excuse! It's a genetic predisposition! Phew...) The town of Ste. Aurelie which is referenced in this poem is in Quebec, just over the border from Big Six Township. St. Zacharie is just south of that, west of Maine's T5 R20. Rumor has it that the delights beyond the boundary were irresistible, even for a jolly old elf.

Many of Uncle George's and Bappa's poems were published in the GNP's newsletter, the Pittston Farm Weekly. I invite you to visit Pittston Farm's website. The farm brims with history pertaining to Maine's once-great logging industry. That same history is the story of the Besseys. My family.



With Christmas less than a week away, I thought I would share one or two of those old poems with you. The river drives are over. The snow-bound logging camps in the woods are gone now, too, and so are Uncle George and Bappa. I miss those men every day. But I have their written words, and those words--those verses--make me smile.

Just like they used to.

Merry Christmas.

What a Night Before Christmas!‘
by George Bessey
circa 1960?

Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.
“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!
They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:
‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’
She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!
To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.
And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!
And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”
“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!
He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!
“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
‘Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.