New Year’s Eve was ALWAYS a special time in the Lawrence household.
I can recall the parties from my childhood.
My mom and dad would have the house packed.
They gave the BEST parties!
She would cook all day, preparing the special things of tradition,
from her Georgia upbringing, mixed with her party animal days in New York,
when things were really swinging.
People would be everywhere but mostly in the basement,
munching on chips, nuts, pretzels, finger sandwiches,
celery with cream cheese, stuffed cherry tomatoes,
and whatever else passed for party snacks back then.
They’d get cocktails and highballs from the bartender, Daddy,
and dance to whatever DJ Dad was spinning,
or sometimes just the radio.
This was the 60’s and 70’s after all.
Radio jocks of the time were a part of the party too.
They knew people were gathering and programmed accordingly.
The Countdown was on the radio long before
watching the ball drop on television became commonplace.
Plus, in our home it was more about live action.
Why have the television on when you can dance?
Then, there were the years before all households had televisions.
(Yes kids – that really happened.)
Though many were present before the clock struck twelve and even more flooding in after midnight,
the real guest of honor was the enormous hog head,
sitting on a platter –
or in the pan –
as the centerpiece of the spread –
with both eyes fixed on you.
Yep.
You read it right.
“ENORMOUS HOG HEAD”
When the food was served, after the beginning of the new year,
he’d be surrounded by rice, black-eyed peas, greens,
relish trays, deviled eggs, potato salad, rolls,
sweet potato pies, and pound-for-pound cake,
all made fresh that day
(except the rolls – I think we bought those).
I’m not sure why I always presumed the hog head was a “he”.
It could have very well been the head of a female.
We have big heads too.
I guess even then I had been conditioned by society,
which was more into executing men vs women.
When a woman was hanged, or electrocuted, it was a much bigger deal so —
I’m just saying, maybe things weren’t so different in the pig community.
Either way, I can’t recall actually being with my mother
when she purchased the hog head,
(or I may have intentionally blocked it from my mind)
so, I can’t describe whether there were rows of them,
all sitting in the butcher’s case, wearing the same glazed expression,
waiting for someone to choose them for the New Year’s spread,
or if she special ordered it.
She special ordered things from time to time.
Still, from the way people responded to it,
it must have just been the thing to do.
I’m telling you, people were excited to meet him.
My mother was apparently very good at cooking this delicacy.
It was always very well received.
I always simply took their word for it.
The saving grace during the big party years was,
as amazing as this might seem,
the hog head would be picked CLEAN by the time everybody left,
thus, removing the possibility of Mama sneaking a piece of it onto my dinner plate the next day.
Later, when the parties reduced in size,
and still later when it would just be a few family members,
the hog head was just a half hog head,
laying on the platter, or in the pan, just looking at you with one eye —
and not winking either.
I kind of felt sorry for him when he was just a half-head.
It’s like he didn’t even get the dignity of having a whole thought.
Smaller gatherings introduced the dilemma.
Those were the times when the meal required very close inspection.
Things had to be lifted and shifted
to find the piece she’d plant on your plate under something.
Sometimes the extended scrutiny could take up to five, ten minutes.
It occurs to me,
based upon my recollection of mama’s facial expression,
the pieces my cousin and I found were decoys,
and we ate some hog head unknowingly every year.
That would not surprise me at all.
Still, it didn’t kill me and the memories of it always make me smile.
The parties were only one of the things that made New Year’s Eve in our house memorable.
There were a great number of requirements in order for the New Year to enter properly,
things we had to do, according Mama-Law,
and the reasons why were generally presented with some catchy phrasing.
At some time on New Year’s Eve, or the day before,
my mom would put dollar bills into envelopes addressed to us,
individually, and put them in a postal box,
in order for them to be delivered after January 1st.
“Now, you’ll have money coming in the new year!”, she’d say
or “Money is on the way!”
We needed to have a clean house.
“Leave the old dirt behind and start the year fresh.”
By clean, I mean the house was spotless
and so too were all the people in it.
— dressed to the nines to greet the new year
because “You want to start the year looking your best!”
“The way you start the year is the way you finish it.”
It was not unusual for Daddy to be in his tuxedo for the parties.
All of the laundry was finished –
there were no dirty clothes in the house at all.
There were clean sheets on the beds, no clutter anywhere –
every surface dusted, every floor swept, mopped, or vacuumed.
During the years when we weren’t giving a party,
it got to the point that by 11:58 onward,
the only dirty glasses and dishes in the house
were the ones we were holding,
and if you put it down before midnight,
you’d better be washing it and putting it away in the cupboard.
It became easier at about 11:45 to just sit down and be quiet.
If anything was out of place, this woman was setting it right.
During the period when Daddy smoked, if it was New Year’s Eve,
Mama would be right behind him cleaning the ashtray
as soon as he put out the cigarette or cigar or pipe.
(Yeah – he did all three at some point before he stopped.)
She was unrelenting about the cleaning thing but there was some cuisine flexibility.
The option existed of eating fish before and after midnight,
— but we had to eat some pork on New Year’s Day, even if it was just a bite.
According to my mom’s traditions,
“You want to start the year swimming along (like a fish)
and/or “rooting and tooting” (like a piggy).
We NEVER ate chicken or any other birds on New Year’s Day.
I still don’t.
I’m still in Mama’s New Year’s Tradition Program.
She used to say, “We don’t want to be hunting,
pecking, and scratching all year long like chickens.”
On the table, near the hog head,
there would be one of her best vases
with several, very large, raw, collard green or cabbage leaves.
That was to invite prosperity into the home.
Further, we ate greens for the same reason,
along with the black-eyed peas and rice
which signified multiplicity in the financial arena.
Right before the countdown,
hats, streamers, and noisemakers would be distributed throughout the house.
These weren’t the cheesy paper things that pass for noisemakers now either.
We’re talking high-quality, colorfully decorated, metal noisemakers and horns.
Everybody would stop and count along with the radio announcer,
burst into song, Auld Lang Syne of course,
shout “Happy New Year”, and the kissing started.
Then, immediately following this new year acknowledgment,
just after midnight, my mom would head to the front door.
Keep in mind, she was always a lady, but on these occasions,
she’d arrest the event in a less than delicate manner than people would understand today,
not with curse words, but with another colloquialism of the era
no longer acceptable in today’s polite, politically correct society.
You can imagine what goes between the brackets.
She would open the door, where the late crowd had gathered,
and STOP THE PARTY for those of us on the first floor
while requesting that those who were waiting to enter remain outside the house.
(Just because the door is open, it doesn’t mean you can come in…)
“Hold on [people]!”
Meanwhile, my dad exited out the back door and came around to the front of the house.
Some of the revelers would follow him out and around, like a miniature parade.
He’d stride up the walkway, pause before entering to toss in some large bills,
and sometimes his entire wallet.
Everybody would be clapping with some hushed comments.
Daddy would come inside and be the first man to do so in the New Year.
My mom would say “A righteous man has to cross my threshold first!”,
as opposed to any “no-count [others]”.
Everybody would laugh.
Having been at our parties before, they knew what to expect.
I have no doubt this particular ritual was repeated at all the homes of my parents’ friends.
Mama would let the people inside crane their necks to see –
as she carefully held us all back,
just in case we accidentally broke the plane before Daddy could do his thing.
She’d remind everybody she had counted the money he tossed,
AND knew where it fell, so touching it was not advised.
The post-midnight crowd was now welcome to enter,
“C’mon in [you guys]!”
They’d now be able to do their share of damage to the hog-head
because the buffet was open for business.
There was some anxiousness as this ritual took place.
Cleveland is one of the cities where firing shotguns
and revolvers at midnight was a very real event.
(From what I hear, some of that might still be happening.)
At any rate, the newcomers were always happy to get inside the house
for more than just the food and music.
Truth be told, I’m pretty sure that’s one of the reasons we gave the party,
instead of going out to a party —
(I remember learning at an early age how to quietly and efficiently depart from a function
if things got a little out of hand or if a gun was introduced into the equation.
I also remember overhearing how if a person was shot on your doorstep,
you needed to drag them into the house so they would be in the wrong.
Now — this was just my mom and dad joking around with their buds I guess,
because we didn’t have weaponry – or so I believe…
Don’t get me wrong. We didn’t live in the stronghold, we just lived in Cleveland.
It’s pretty much the same all over.)
At some point, my participation in the party would end.
I was rarely in the basement after 10pm,
struggling to stay awake to sing Auld Lang Syne.
I can recall sitting on the couch after the big midnight cheer
watching the party with increasingly heavy eyelids threatening to shut completely,
every moment my body becoming more and more prone, almost a part of the fabric.
My mom and dad would both bring me a miniature glass of wine or champagne,
at different times, each saying not to tell the other.
That’s something else that makes me laugh now.
Clearly, they wanted to knock me out so the party could really rock.
There are very few photos from New Year’s celebrations past.
More often, it was the stories at the next gathering telling the tale.
There was always a party post-mortem too, the very next day, with plenty of laughs.
That’s how my cousin and I would hear about what we missed after we went to bed.
Daddy would tell us how far into the party they would turn around the Drunk Man statuette.
It sat on the bar. On one side it has two eyes, but on the other it has about six eyes.
It would serve to confuse the actual drunks at the party.
Then, there was one of Daddy’s friends who always insisted on something from the prettiest bottle.
My mom had a crystal decanter that held a special blend. This was what he reached for first.
Unbeknownst to him, it contained the corners from all of the bottles in the bar.
My mom would empty them into the decanter when she replaced the supply.
I’m talking vodka, gin, scotch, rye, bourbon, rum, etc.
This was a concoction unmeasured and unrivaled.
She got a real kick out of it because she had a thing about people equating best with pretty.
That’s not always the case.
I can’t imagine my parents and their friends existing in the era of Facebook,
Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and whatever else is out here
causing people to live their lives on their devices,
instead of actually experiencing the event.
Those were different times entirely.
Years later, when it was just the three of us New Year’s Eve,
my mom and dad and I would still have hors d’oeuvres and canapes,
we’d drink champagne and toast each other.
Daddy would still step outside and back in at midnight,
though he had long ceased the exit out the back-door routine.
He even graced my home as the first man of the year to enter
during the time he lived here with me,
right up until the New Year’s Eve before he died.
I remember he only put one foot out and in that year,
more like the hokey pokey than the ritual we remembered.
It was hilarious!
So, as I count the blessings of 2016, and greet 2017,
I am carrying on with the traditions of our family.
The house is clean, as am I, though I’m a little more casual than in previous years.
All of the laundry isn’t done but will that ever happen again in my lifetime?
I’m tempted to just start burning clothes like we burn leaves in the islands.
It would be so much simpler.
I did not mail any money to myself this year.
I’m counting on direct deposit to symbolize it’s on the way.
I’m already having champagne.
I will sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight and make some noise.
The Fuzz will go outside and come in since he protects the place.
It is likely I’ll need to set the alarm for 11:55 to really do all of these things.
That is a new tradition for me, for about five years now.
I retire a little earlier at night so I can get up earlier in the morning –
this happens every night, not just New Year’s Eve —
but on New Year’s Eve, I set the alarm so I don’t miss the changeover.
It’s funny that I somehow believe I can feel a difference at that very moment.
There are clean sheets on the bed and I’m looking forward to getting in between them.
It’s still okay to celebrate after a nap.
My resolution is the same one I’ve been making the past few years —
I want to be better at something every day —
internal, external, doesn’t matter, just better at something – every day.
We can only strive for excellence since perfection among humans doesn’t exist.
There are greens, 
black-eyed peas,
rice, shrimp, fish,
and although it’s not a generally a part of my diet these days,
in honor of Mama,
there is pork.
No.
Not the head.
Happy New Year!
May 2017 bring you blessings, peace of mind, prosperity,
and all things that make you grow in wisdom.
Be happy.