Plugușorul is one of the most cherished customs in Romanian culture. This vocal tradition, performed in unison by children and adults on New Year’s Eve, is closely tied to agricultural work and hopes for a bountiful harvest in the coming year.
The time-honored verses of Plugușorul have been passed down through centuries, maintaining their original charm and surprising listeners year after year. Accompanied by the ringing of bells and the crack of whips, this festive chant takes its name, Plugușorul, everywhere across the country. In rural areas, the tradition is even more elaborate. Groups of young men visit homes, reciting wishes of prosperity while carrying an actual plow.
According to tradition, children, teens, and sometimes adults participate in Plugușorul on the evening of December 31. While this custom is carried out the night before the New Year, another tradition, Sorcova, follows on January 1. Both rituals have been practiced for centuries as symbols of fortune and abundance for the welcoming households.
Perhaps creative fiction inspired by the tradition will set the stage for you to understand it better. Here’s a story I wrote based on childhood memories:
The Plow Challenge
For weeks now, our quiet corner of Teleorman County hadn’t known peace. Lately, every large path and crossroads echoed with deafening whip cracks, the clang of bells, and the stubborn creak of spinning tops. Rehearsals were in full swing.
After school, before winter break had even begun, the kids would gather instinctively. Everyone wanted perfection, even if their textbooks lay forgotten in dusty corners, buried under neglected backpacks.
Our crew had been set for a year, rarely shaken up at the last minute. That afternoon, with his hat yanked low over his ears, Alex turned out of his gate. His steps were quick, heading to the street’s end where his cousin, Marian, was already warming up with a whip longer than any of us had ever seen. Marian had been practicing his signature crack-front-and-back move for at least half an hour.
Alex, the smallest of us all, owed his spot to Marian’s meddling. Without him vouching, Alex would’ve been left out again this year. Last time, he’d only been included to collect the money—and even then, he walked away with a measly handful of coins. This year was different. He was tasked with reciting the “Plugușorul,” our traditional New Year’s rhyme. While the others joked it wouldn’t carry much punch, Alex had spent weeks practicing. He even memorized a shorter version since the “old-school Plugușor” was notoriously long.
When the night of New Year’s Eve finally came, the village lay frozen under a milky fog. You couldn’t see ten steps ahead. It felt like someone had topped up every chimney in the heavens with thick, white smoke.
“Hurry up, man! Costel’s gang already scooped half the route!” grumbled Marian, pacing. “Fine, fine, I’m coming!” Alex croaked, his voice strained with nerves. “Did you gargle an egg or what?” teased George, our whip-master. “What egg? And all of ours froze solid in the coop anyway!” Marian fired back. “It’s freezing! Even my whip’s too stiff to crack right.”
We trudged through the frosty fog, squinting to pick out our first stop. “Let’s try Gogu’s first. They’re always good for coins,” suggested George.
Our breath fogged the cold air like dragon fire as we shuffled onto Gogu’s street. Alex struggled to keep up, slipping and sliding on the ice-glazed earth. Suddenly, he hit the ground with a loud thud, his hat flying two meters ahead. “Nice move, klutz! Did ya shatter your magic flute too? Bet you can’t even recite anymore!” laughed George.
Alex scrambled up, red-faced, brushing off his coat. He stayed quiet, and we moved forward like wanderers lost in the fog—faces slapped by icy winds, hair frosted under oversized hats. Soon, we reached Gogu’s wide gates and pushed them open.
His yard seemed enormous, the kind of place where kids kick deflated soccer balls all summer. Tonight, the house shone from every window, golden rectangles piercing the mist. “Do you accept the Plugușor?” Marian boomed awkwardly, his voice cracking slightly. The call set off dogs barking in three or four neighboring yards.
The door finally creaked open, and Aunt Viorica stepped out—or rather, a human-like outline in a glowing yellow frame. “We do! We do! Let me get the others. Goguuuu, bring everyone! The kids are here!” she yelled.
Gogu emerged, hands on his hips, flanked by two kids. “Whose lot are ya? Wait a minute—Alex, that you? Go on, out with it, kid!” Gogu bellowed.
Alex stood center-stage, dwarfed by his hat. He looked more like a ladybug than a leader. Still, he squared his shoulders. The rest of us spread out in a circle, ready to back him up.
He began. “Once upon a time, old Traian awoke, mounted his steed unbroken…” His voice, though young, carried the rhyme perfectly. When he paused, we jumped in with whooping replies: “Drive, drive, haaay!”
Whips cracked through the night, echoing down the streets. Within minutes, Alex wrapped up the short version. “Hmm, impressive,” nodded Gogu, his arms crossed. “But can you do the full version? The old one? I’ll give you five times more if you can.”
The rest of us froze. Nobody cared about the money. Messing this up meant public humiliation. But Alex didn’t flinch. “I can, Uncle Gogu.” He dove into the full version, words flowing like he’d scrawled them in his own bones. By the halfway point, Gogu interrupted, laughing. “That’s enough, boy! Here, take your prize!”
Alex lit up, grinning wider than the fog-coated moon. Suddenly, he was the hero. We scattered as another group arrived at Gogu’s gate. “Well done, kid. You saved us all,” whispered Marian, squeezing Alex in a quick hug.
We pushed on through the eerie night, heading for more houses. Alex walked taller now, his purple hat perched at an angle, almost like a crown. His voice echoed boldly as we approached the next stop: “Gather close by the oxen, hear my call…” That night, in the bitter cold, everyone heard every word he said.
