Written By John Caverhill
For many people, the holiday festivities conclude with a New Year’s Eve party. Back when I was young, I also participated enthusiastically in New Year’s Eve celebrations, but over the past 70 years my approach to New Year’s Eve has evolved from active participant to passive observer. Not only the activity level, but the time spent celebrating, has shrunk considerably. I used to enjoy watching the television presentations of New Year’s Eve celebrations in the different time zones, culminating at midnight in our own country. Over the years this practice has also changed to falling asleep well before midnight, waking up in the wee morning hours, and turning off the TV and crawling off to bed to fall asleep again.
It is the aftermath of one of those early celebrations that I vividly recall, rather than the party. In my very early twenties, I attended a New Year’s Eve party where, for the first time, I partook well but not wisely of various alcoholic beverages. New Year’s Eve was on a Saturday. I awoke on Sunday morning at 6 o’clock (barn chore time) and immediately wished I hadn’t. I felt terrible. There’s the old saying about looking like something the cat dragged in. I didn’t look in the mirror because I knew if I looked even half as bad as I felt, no self-respecting cat would have touched me; it would have covered me over on the spot. I got through the chores by moving carefully and remaining upright by bending my knees instead of my back.
Church was at ten o’clock. My head and stomach had settled down somewhat but I still felt pretty fragile as, looking straight ahead and moving carefully, I processed with the rest of the choir up into the choir loft. I was able to hide my delicate condition until the pastoral prayer was announced. The congregation remains seated during the prayer, which lasts several minutes. In those days, the men leaned over and bowed their heads during this prayer. Without thinking I leaned over and bowed my head—then frantically clutched the sides of the chair to keep from toppling right over. I straightened up and after a few seconds things stopped whirling around and I could see straight again. All heads were reverently bowed. All heads, that is, except mine and one other and that head, which was situated in the centre bank of pews directly in front of me, belonged to my cousin Marion. Because they were much older than me, I always thought of Marion and her husband Campbell as aunt and uncle, rather than cousins. As my eyes came into focus, they connected squarely with Marion’s face, which was split in half by when can only be described as a ribald grin. It was also a knowing grin. She obviously understood the situation and it didn’t make me feel any better that she thought the whole thing a huge joke.
My system to this day can abide only a drink or two before warning me that enough is sufficient.
In closing: if you want to raise your glass to ‘toast’ the New Year in, you might want to try the following. A ceremonial Christmas drink in old England was called Lamb’s Wool. This was a mixture of hot ale, sugar, spices, eggs, and roasted apples. Thick cream was sometimes added. It was served in a wassail bowl with pieces of toast floating on top. This was the original drinking toast.
Best wishes for the New Year!
