Each February, the big community event where I live is Winter Fest, which takes place on the grounds of an old inn on  the other side of town. There’s sledding, snowshoeing, cold water plunging, snow sculpture and other indoor and outdoor activities for all ages, followed by a sumptuous feast and a contra dance in the barn. Oh, and “winter stories from storyteller Andy Davis.”

This year’s was the third annual. I try not to repeat stories, and in putting together my wintry set list, the only thing I know for sure is that I’ll recite something from Robert W. Service, “The Bard of the Yukon.” The thing is, I did “The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill” at the first annual, and “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” at the second annual, so the only thing “Serviceable” I had left was “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

I have nothing against “Sam McGee.” In fact, I quite like it. The vivid Arctic imagery and macabre humor fit my peculiar northern temperament well. But the trouble is, it’s Service’s best-known poem, and so very many people do it. There are old men that trot it out at every family gathering. There are multitudes for whom it’s their only party piece, and if they’re asked to contribute something to an evening’s entertainment, Sam McGee from Tennessee rears his southern head. More power to them, I thought—I have other stories. So, years ago I had put it on a shelf, like Bill McKie’s coffin, and I hadn’t touched it since.

To give an idea of how widespread the Sam McGee cult is, twelve years ago Mrs. Fortin taught it to my daughter Fiona along with her thirteen 6^th grade classmates at The White Mountain Waldorf School. Fiona still had enough of a grasp of it that when I told her I was going to do it at Winter Fest, she immediately started spouting “There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold…” and as I set about recovering it, she was able to prompt me. We went walking between the snowbanks down Cleveland Hill Road with Darby the beagle, trading stanzas.

The evening before Winter Fest, I sat at home in a rocker in front of the fire facing my wife Andrea and Darby on the couch. I decided to recite “Sam McGee” to make sure it was all living at the tip of my brain, in the proper order, as it needed to be. The electric lights were out and a couple of candles were lit for atmosphere.

Darby’s nose was under her tail, but as I began to orally unscroll Service’s verse, she sat up like a loon on the surface of a pond and gazed directly at me for the seven-minute duration of the poem, with as much undivided attention as I’ve ever enjoyed from anyone. She was so alert and tuned in, as if hearing it for the first time, in spite of the fact that she’s heard many repetitions of it over her shoulder as we walk the dawn and dusk roads of Tamworth together. Whatever happened the next day, that moment of canine enchantment made bringing Sam back worthwhile.

The storytelling at the Winter Fest takes place under a timber frame pavilion outside the barn, with a big granite fireplace cheerily consuming logs at one end. I stood in front of the fireplace, with my backside toasty and my frontside cool, and faced a bunch of bundled adults and a few children taking a break from sledding.

When Sam McGee’s moment came, in my intro I introduced Fiona, standing in the rear left of the audience, and her history with the poem. I launched, and surfed the rhythmic story wave all the way to Sam’s last line, then began to climb onto the table in front of me to give the repeated postscript a bit of additional flair. On my way up, I stuttered and transposed a couple of lines, but Fiona came to my rescue, to generalized chuckles. (Thank you, Mrs. Fortin!)

Inside, a man whose nametag said “Michael” came up and told me that for years his father-in-law had recited Sam McGee to the gathered family at the end of each Thanksgiving dinner. “Well, Andy,” Michael said, “The old boy passed away this year, so it was especially meaningful to hear you do it. My wife wasn’t able to be here today, so I made a video of your performance. Would you mind if I share the recording with her and the rest of my family?” Well, of course I wouldn’t.

The life of stories is mysterious, and it’s not always clear which ones to tell and which ones to leave undisturbed in the village where stories live when they’re not roaming among us, but in that moment I knew for certain that on this particular day it had been the right decision to resuscitate Sam McGee.