For hundreds—or even thousands—of years, rural farm folk have been celebrating apples, apple trees, agricultural life, and cider on a cold night in January. The celebration typically took place on the “old twelfth night” which, by the pre-1752 Julian calendar, was on January 17. We usually do ours on the third Saturday night in January. This year it fell on the 17th.

Families started arriving at the farm late in the afternoon before dark, which gave everyone time to play in the snow, catch up with friends separated by the winter cold and snow, and wander about the farm. When darkness descended, we gathered by a large bonfire, cider in hand, and watched ten thousand sparks ascending into the night sky and ten thousand snowflakes falling to Earth. It was magical.

After a welcome and a brief introduction to Wassail, everyone joined in for our favorite call and response cider poem, “The Cider’s Gittin’ Low” and sang two traditional Wassail songs with lyrics we’ve heavily “adapted” over the years. Eventually we circled around one of our oldest apple trees where we acted out a skit we write each year that often tends toward improv and chaos. It’s a tribute to the apple trees for past harvests and a humble request for a bountiful crop in the coming year. It’s all in good fun but also quite serious. We are profoundly grateful to all the plants and what they give us year after year with unbounded generosity. They are truly amazing!

We end our official program with these words, some version of which was written many generations ago:

Old apple tree, we Wassail thee and hope that thou doth bear,

For Lord knows where we shall be when apples come another year.

So the bear well and fruit well, so merry let us be,

Let everyone drink up their cup

And cry “Health !” to the old apple tree.

Three handled Wassail mug made by Nancy and Abbott Meader.

Hat’s full!

Caps full!

Barrels full!

3-bushel bags full!

Barn-floors full!

(and even a little heap under the stairs!)

WASSAIL!