Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
The Bad Luck Wassail
One guy had a heart attack.
A house burned down.
Some bad neighbors got evicted.
Really: don't make us sing the Bad Luck Wassail.
Through the long nights of December, the wassailers bear joy and blessing. (“Wassail” means: “Be hale!”) Out of the dark we come, singing the Sun's rebirth. It's a traveling party. People set out a Yule board, fill our glasses. We sing together, laugh, tell stories, and before we leave, we sing a song of blessing on the house for the year to come.
Do you have any bad neighbors? we ask before we go.
Mostly the answer, thankfully, is No. But if it's not, well...there's always the Bad Luck Wassail.
One year we drove (widdershins, of course) around City Hall, singing unluck.
Later that year, the mayor and City Council got voted out of office: bad luck for them, maybe, but for the rest of us....
We haven't had to sing the Bad Luck Wassail yet this year, but never fear. Thirteenth Night is coming up, with all the cumulative dark weight of Deep Night behind it.
Ready? OK, it's east-southeast from here: take a deep breath. Now sing it like you mean it.
White House, this one's for you.
All on this pleasant evening, together come are we......
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Oh how.funny!!!