Santa had come and gone. The children were nestled all snug in their beds but the sugar plums that once danced in their heads had been devoured and, by now, the resulting ‘high’ subsided settling things back to a dull roar. Even the nastiest little crumb cruncher hadn’t received coal in his stocking and all was well.  Or was it?

Here it was New Year’s Eve and each year the same two things always amaze me. The first is how the nature of my celebration has changed with time.  The other is our tradition of getting misty-eyed over a song to which most people know the words but few know either the meaning or how to spell it.

For years I held that Christmas was the holiday for kids and New Year’s was the adult holiday.  To prove it, I’d whip up a batch of lethal ingredients that became known to anyone who experienced the concoction as “The Brew.” It was my cup ‘o kindness. I’d simmer a 1/2 cup each of raisins and blanched almonds in a cup of vodka for about five minutes.  Then dump the mixture into a large pot together with a bottle of Ruby Port and a bottle of Brotherhood Holiday Wine — heat until just short of boiling and inflict.

The result made you feel warm and secure all over.  But the stuff was insidious.  This is the kind of thing you’d serve to spies or quiet women who you suspected of having a deeper inner self.  It was so delicious that you kept wanting more; you didn’t slur your speech and your mind seemed clear.  But then, if you tried to stand up and walk, Gumby would have laughed at your perfect pair of rubber legs.  Eventually, all the ingredients joined voices to provide a memorable lecture about the evils of drink.

These were the days when about twenty of us would chip in for a suite at The Robert Treat Hotel in Newark where we could party hearty and wouldn’t have to pick up in the morning — only bodies.  After many of us married and acquired families, we became a calmer crew with calmer parties and bought homes to which we invited fewer people.  In other words, we settled down — sort of.

As the years passed friends scattered, New Year’s celebrations shrank and pretty soon we began to prefer just a conversational get-together with another couple. “The Brew” faded into history and was replaced with modestly-priced Champagne, concerns about alcohol mixing with meds and a responsible attitude toward DWI.  So, dust me off and prop me up, okay?

Through it all however, large party or small, after the ball in Times Square dropped at midnight, we always welcomed the New Year with a chorus or two of “Auld Lang Syne.” It was tradition — but what the hell does it mean? In case you’ve been faking it all these years like a lot of folks, who never learned the words to “The Star Spangled Banner” either, here are the official lyrics:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Chorus.-For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

It turns out that “Auld Lang Syne” is an extremely old Scottish song that was first written down in the 1700s. Robert Burns is the person whose transcription got the most attention, so the song is associated with him.  A little research tells me that a good translation of the words “auld lang syne” is times gone by. So [unless they're blowing smoke up my kilt] when we sing this song, we are saying, “We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet for times gone by.” In today’s world it’s advisable to bring your own crockery.

As to the opening lines about forgetting old acquaintances, I can do without any number of people that have shaken my hand through the years and tried to steal my fingers, but friends are something different. I’ve had four good ones who have filled my cup with more than just kindness for a long time. Sometimes we get a bit out of synch but if one of them should decide to pack up and check out of this hotel before I do, rest assured he’ll never be forgotten — or auld lang syne.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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