Here's another tune from Dick Robertson and his Orchestra,
Meet Me Under the Mistletoe.
I thought I'd written about the tradition of mistletoe somewhere in my blog, but when I looked I couldn't find anything on the subject. At the risk of repeating myself (I beg forgiveness if I do, the dog is getting older you know), to remedy that situation let's touch on the origin of smooching under the old yuletide weed.
Mistletoe is a parasitic plant that attaches itself to a tree or bush, drawing water and nutrients from its host in order to live. Now, that doesn't seem to be much of a starting point for a plant that's associated with love and kisses and the holiday season, but let's press on and try to ignore any unflattering comparisons to certain romantic entanglements.
The etymology of the word
mistletoe isn't certain. Some say it's related to the German
mist (for dung) and
tang (for branch) as a reference to the fact that the plant can be spread via bird droppings. I find this origin dubious, though, since it's unlikely Germanic peoples naming the plant would have understood how it was spread well enough to make the link.
As this little spell from
Queen Loeta and the Mistletoe, a 1857 tome
by George Halse suggests, mistletoe has always been attributed with certain magical properties.
The magical essence of mistletoe goes back into antiquity and the most likely source of the Christmas custom associated with it might be the early church's habit of adopting pagan
traditions into its ceremony to ease acceptance of the new faith. It's know
that pre-Christian peoples in Europe saw mistletoe as a representation of the
divine male essence, romance, fertility, and vitality and that these people
sometimes kissed under sprigs of the plant seeking some sort of mystical boon.
Mistletoe as a Christmas decoration isn't mentioned before
the 18th century. According to tradition, when a man and woman meet beneath the
mistletoe they are obliged to kiss.
Washington Irving described this tradition in his 1820
The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.
The mistletoe is still
hung up in farm-houses and kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the
privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the
bush. When the berries are all plucked the privilege ceases.
And I like Mr. Irving's take on the tradition. Nothing increases fondness more than short supply.
