Happy Hogmany!

As a child I could hardly wait until I was old enough to stay up until midnight and celebrate Hogmany by seeing the New Year in.

New Year's Eve was one of the busiest days of the year for my mother and probably most housewives in Scotland. By midnight the house had to be shining and ready for the arrival of the New Year and our 'first footers.'

My mother always kept our home neat and clean. Considering her hustle and bustle on the last day of the year, a stranger seeing the energy expended on house cleaning might think it was an annual event only. The living room, where everyone congregated, took the biggest brunt. Nothing escaped her eagle eye. Once everything was cleaned to her satisfaction, she would polish the already well-polished sideboard until it absolutely shone.

Her last chore, and one of the most important, was to clean the fireplace in the living room. By tradition, the fire had to be extinguished well before midnight. All ashes were then removed before the iron grate was cleaned and polished with a black enamel coating. Once this was done and the surrounding fireplace and mantelpiece cleaned, the makings of a fire was set in the grate.

This last job might be done early, but regardless of how cold it might get, the fire would remain unlit until the following year.

Sometime during the day, my mother took time out from cleaning to go shopping. Certain items, including shortbread, fruit cake, and 'spirits' were an integral part of the celebrations.

I can still see the table in the corner of our living room set up with all these traditional, but necessary items. The table would be covered with a sparkling white, starched cloth. Then displayed, ready for guests, would be a bottle of port, another of sherry and, of course, a flask of Scotch whisky. A plate of fruitcake and another of traditional Scottish shortbread would complete the setting.

From the time the table was made ready until midnight drew near, the anticipation of New Year celebrations would grow.

When I was young my excitement would end when I was sent to bed. I'd go reluctantly determined to stay awake until I heard our 'first footers' arrive. Somehow though I was always asleep before this happened.

The year I was 13 my mother agreed I was old enough to stay up to see the New Year in. As the time grew nearer, I began to wonder who would be our 'first foot'-the first person to cross the threshold after the last stroke of midnight.

Much to my surprise, my mother knew exactly who it would be. She had no intention of allowing anyone but our neighbour, Mr. McKenzie, in first. He, according to my mother, was the perfect 'first foot' because he was tall and had dark hair.

Mrs. McKenzie, who had blondish hair, would also come. However, she would not come in until her husband, carrying a lump of coal, had entered.

All over Scotland, similar scenes took place. To ensure good luck in the New Year, the very first 'first foot' is traditionally a tall dark haired man. The lump of coal he carries symbolizes warmth in the home throughout the year.

Once our neighbour arrived, his lump of coal went into the fireplace and my mother lit the first fire of the year.

It was now past midnight but the streets were busy with people out visiting neighbours and friends. Soon more people began arriving at our home and, according to tradition, none came empty handed. They came bearing packets of tea or biscuits-usually some kind of grocery item-as a sign our home would never be in want of food during the upcoming year.

Up until that year all my 'first footing' had taken place in the daylight hours of January 1. I would visit my grandparents or aunts, and for my first visit of the year, my mother always gave me a gift for each home I visited.

New Year was always the biggest holiday of the year in Scotland. Unlike Christmas Day, when many factories and businesses remained open, New Year's Day was a public holiday and everything-apart from public transport-closed down.

The celebrations usually continued into daylight. Many people, especially younger adults, stayed out all night, going from house to house and could still be seen the following day going around in groups. I can recall as a child, seeing impromptu performances of dancing and singing on the street or tramcar, from happy groups of 'first footers.'

Known as 'Hogmany' these New Year's celebrations are unique to Scotland. Our neighbours in England had no such tradition, although often English people crossed the border to join the festivities.

One New Year memory I recall took place in the 1950s, when my brother, who had been called up for a required two-year National Service in the British Army, brought home two of his army friends during their leave. Both were English and delighted to have their first Hogmany experience.

They assured my mother they were well prepared for the festivities, by singing "Auld Lang Syne" and then "The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen.

My mother was suitably impressed, not so much by their singing Auld Lang Syne, but by their knowing The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen, which at the time, few people outside our city knew the words to this song

"I didn't think anyone from England would know that song," said my mother.

"What? not know The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen," one replied.

"Everyone in our camp knows that song. Each time your son George comes back to the barracks after a few drinks out on the town, he always sings that song. He's sung it that often, there's not a soul there who can't repeat it word for word."

It certainly wasn't what my mother-who hated to hear about anyone drinking to excess-needed to hear about her son. She might keep liquor in the house for New Year guests but being told her son overindulged completely shocked her. I'm pretty sure she might have murdered my brother on the spot if it wasn't New Year and his friends weren't there.

Whatever the reason, she kept calm about it. But by the looks she gave my brother I knew he would hear about it at a later date. Today, my brother, who tends to have a selective memory, says it never happened.

But I remember, because as a teenager who had more than my fair share of disagreements with the same brother, it actually made that New Year memorable for me. I was only too glad to have my mother discover that her oldest son wasn't quite so perfect as she usually considered him to be.

Happy Hogmany to you all.

abarker@thepacket.ca

Anne Barker is a reporter with the Packet in Bonavista.

Next week: George Martin writes