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I remember as a boy trying to sing the songs my father sang. The same songs his father sang to him, and the same songs his father’s father sang to him, along the line for as many generations as there have been.


They sang to the animals and the animals produced young in abundance.
They sang to the crops and the crops sprang forth in the fields with vigor.
They sang to the wind and the rain, and the sun and the moon, their songs.

I remember trying to sing, but the words came out wrong, and the melody was not what it should have been.

“That is fine boy” my father would say to me, “you will sing when you are older”

Every year I would try to sing to my plants, and I could not carry the tune. Every year I would sing to the winter, and it would not be easy for me. The bitter cold was still around me.

I remember one evening, I took out my pipe, and by the fire I sat, so cold was the air that the meager heat produced by the fire barely warmed the old house. It was at this time that I remembered an old rhyme that my father taught me, and I thought I would give it a try.

Oh father , oh father where have you gone
Why have you left us in this shadow of dawn

It was a silly little rhyme and I did not know the tune, but I tried to sing it as best I could. As I repeated the rhyme over and over trying to hone the sound I heard, it seemed it got better, but never quite good enough. Still it kept my mind off the cold and damp.

I changed the words a few times to match the process I was working on, just to find a harmony that would pull at the strings that rang in my heart. I threw another log on the fire, and stirred the ashes, singing as best I could…

Oh, father, oh father, what have I done
My supper is cold and the fire is gone

I thought maybe if I expanded on the rhyme maybe it would start to grow with the rhythm.

Oh father our father the father of all
you gave us our voices and made them strong
our notes were weak until you taught us song
then our voices raised up in your spring song

It was then that the fire rose up in sudden blast, and I had to jump back least I got burned in the flames that licked at the room. It was but a moment later that the entire room was full of warmth and light.

It was a blast of wind, down the chimney that fanned the flames, I told myself, this and nothing more, for it died as quickly as it came. I laughed in spite of myself, as I thought, maybe it was the old man of winter kicking back as it was far too early for spring songs.

I righted my chair, which had fallen over in my hurry to escape the stray tongues of flame, and sat again beside the fire, prepared to wait for my stew. When I looked at the pot, the stew was hot, and it made me laugh again, thinking well at least it heated up my dinner.

I got up to fetch a spoon, feeling the chill now moving back from the darkened corners of the room to which it had momentarily retreated. I looked out the window to see the dying light of father sun through the grey cloak of winter sky. In but moments he would be gone, and it would be darkness upon the land. The men would sing in their houses, and lament his passing until sleep overtook them, and they would lavish him with praises on their rise of morning.

Taking my spoon back to my chair, I ate my stew with a stale biscuit, and some moldy cheese.

I could not keen for the dying of the light, nor could I rejoice in his rising from the dead each day. My voice held no strain of song that would give me the strength I needed to add my song to the many that were sung each day. I would go out in the morning and scratch upon the ground waiting for spring, and harvest needles from pine trees to make my midday meal. My cow had died but spring this last and with her went the calf, and my hope for growth. All that remained were a few ill tempered chickens, and a half crazed cat who usually stole what few eggs the hens laid.

If I were a brave man I would go out into the woods and hunt. That would be a foolish man as well, for the huntsmen may be lurking about, and the lord took no pity upon anyone who took what was rightfully his, by birth or by decree. By rights it was all his, the wood, the land, the road to and from, there was no travel without his say. I would have left this desolate place, but I could not find the courage to escape.

The only hope I had left was that I might learn the tune of my father, and with this be a purposeful man. Well I might get conscripted for the lords arms, but as it were, I was too far from the keep, and not of well enough stature to provide for even a squire, never mind that guardsman or such as it were. I knew nothing of grooming, so it would most likely be dung cart for the likes of me.

No, I would scratch at the ground until the strength to do so no longer did I possess. Then I ask the father be kind and allow me to lie upon the ground and no more should I see. That was more than I was to hope for, for nothing is as it seems.