I remember growing up on the farm. It was a boring time for me. That is until I discovered my escape in reading. I read most anything that had words I could understand, and I especially liked to read funny stories. When I heard the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, the gears of my bored mind began spinning. What fun I could have with that scenario:

What if someone would send me each of the gifts for the Twelve Days of Christmas? Send one every day for twelve days. What would I do with them? Where would I hide them from prying eyes? My dad had no sense of humor. My mother had even less. My two younger brothers would cause a peck of trouble.

I would be thrilled with the pear tree. I love pears. The partridge, not so much. I would plant the tree in the orchard and hide the partridge in the chicken coop with the chickens. The two turtle doves would not have a problem in the chicken coop either They could roost in the rafters out of reach of the pecking hens and the overly friendly roosters. Of course, the pompous three French hens might think they are better than our Rhode Island Reds. They would have to work it out. The chicken coop was far enough from the house that we wouldn't hear the commotion of their hen fights.

When I came home from school on the fifth day, Mother handed me a package the mail man had delivered. Inside were five gold rings. They looked golden, that is. I told Mother they were a promotional gift from the Saturday Evening Post. Amazingly, she believed me.

I was worried about the sixth day's gift. Six geese do not hide as easily as poultry. The only water around was the horse tank that served the cows and our two horses, Molly and Sweetheart. The geese would make a mess of that water. The nearest lake was a mile away. If I could lure the geese down the road to the lake with a trail of shelled corn, who would know? The swans that would arrive the next day could join them. Nothing like companions to make life go a little easier.

Knowing how the song went, I knew I was in trouble now. You can't hide eight maids a milking. They didn't milk all the time. I told Dad that their milking chores was a science project at our high school. He was grateful for the help.

It only worsened the next day. A Greyhound bus pulled up just as we were sitting down for supper. Out jumped nine ladies a-dancing, dressed in coordinated outfits and singing at the top of their lungs. Their harmony was excellent, but how could I explain them to my folks? I didn't even try, just led them out to the barn and introduced them to the eight milk maids. There was ample room in the hayloft. I told Mother their tour bus had broken down and they would only be spending the night.

As I walked back to the house, I hummed the tune, trying to remember the words to the song that was beginning to cause me a heap of trouble. The worst was yet to come. Early the next morning ten Lords a-leaping came prancing down the road. They broad jumped the fence into the orchard and took up positions around the pear tree. At least they were out near the lane and causing no trouble, since they didn't yet know about the ladies in the barn.

The next two gifts would blow the song right out of sight. Mother did wonder about the strange eggs, but I tried to explain it away as having to do with changing their feed mixture. My spending so much time in the barn was a bit more difficult. My two brothers twisted the head, arms and legs off every dolly I ever had. Who wants to play with only a torso? They were not on my gift list. Mother knew that.

I thought the gifts had stopped when no one showed up on the eleventh day. I was wrong. Eleven pipers piping and twelve drummers drumming arrived on the dot at midnight marching in lock step down the middle of the road. There was no hiding them. The song was at its end and my doom was sealed.

Mother had had more than she could stand of my strange behavior. I tried to explain that I had no control over receiving these gifts, but she wouldn't listen. Disposing of the twelve gifts would be my problem, she said. That would be another story.

Making up stories like this was fun. Bored out of my mind, I found ways to amuse myself. The teachers thought I was sweet. Yeah, right. I seldom was caught in the pranks I pulled. After all, being an A student I could do no wrong. Merry Christmas to all!