Christmas in Maine

Christmas in Maine

This poem by my niece, Dr. Bette Sylvester Bergeron, was published in The Courier-Gazette, 24 years ago, on December 24, 1987. She grew up in Thomaston and was a teacher in Bangor at the time. I thought you might enjoy it.

Christmas in Maine

By Bette S. Bergeron

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the state

Us folks were planning to make Christmas great.

The hipboots were hung by the mantel, with pride,

As dinghies and dories awaited the tide.

The lobsters were nestled all snug in their pots,

Not knowing their water would soon be too hot.

Pa in his knit cap, pulled down to his ears,

Ma’s muffler and peacoat ready and near,

As out on the dock there arose such a bout,

We ran to the porch to check it out.

Away to the baithouse we flew like a clipper,

Faster than flicks from a harbor seal’s flipper.

The moon on the crust of the ocean’s white ice,

Caused us to pause, and look again twice.

When what, through the frost did our eyes catch a flicker,

Of something that looked like a red and green skidder.

With a ruddy old driver, his scarf long and loose,

Pulled by a herd of eight giant moose,

Slowly they drove through the ice and the snow,

Down to the forest awaiting below.

And then one by one, the moose pulled the rein,

And hauled that red skidder back towards us again.

To the front of our porch, he came with his load,

And stopped that red skidder in drifts of Maine snow,

As tall pines by the coastline stretch high,

Reaching and blending with winter’s blue sky;

So up on the shingles that driver did reach,

With his pack and his moose—A glorious feat.

And then in a flash he jumped down the chimbly,

A trick which that driver accomplished quite nimbly.

We all rushed inside, and peered in the hall,

To find where that driver might happen to fall.

We found in the parlor that he had begun

To fill up our hipboots with holiday fun.

He had a red slicker, with fur as the trim,

His fishnet was filled with toys to the brim,

His eyes like the shine of the quiet blue sea,

His back was as straight as an evergreen tree,

His mouth had a smile that filled us with cheer,

His fluffy white beard stretched ear to ear.

A chaw of tobaccy held in his cheek,

As he flashed a grin with his stain-tinted teeth.

He had a proud face, carved out by the breeze

That follows the wind off Maine’s rocky seas.

He was broad from the chopping of Maine’s hardy pines,

His arms and legs sturdy, his motions were kind.

He was in no hurry, didn’t make a big fuss,

We knew without speeches who this kind man was.

He quietly worked ‘neath our tall Christmas fir,

Filling the dreams of good boys and girls.

Then placing his muffler tight ‘cross his mouth,

That jolly old driver flew out of our house.

He jumped to his skidder, his smile all a-beam,

Then pulled on the reins to start out his team.

And as his red skidder quickly flew up,

He called down behind him,

           “Merry Christmas, AYUH!”

(More about “skidders” later)