Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and days of old lang syne?
For old lang syne, my dears, for old lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for days of old lang syne.
Robert Burns, 1788
Along with “Happy Birthday to You” and “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” “For Auld Lang Syne” is the most frequently sung ditty in the western world, according to the Guinness Book of Records.
Everyone sings it when the clock strikes twelve on New Year’s Eve. For me, it’s intensely nostalgic, and tears came to my eyes when I hummed it to myself while typing the words. (I know, I know . . . I’m getting old. I find myself talking and singing to myself and tearing up easily!)
For old times’ sake, indeed. Readers say that they enjoy my forays into past time. However, travelling along the byways of the past brings not only warm fuzzies, but also extremely poignant memories of beloved people who are no longer here.
It’s very easy to become trapped in the past and dwell on what you’ve lost so that you don’t move on. The minister, Joel Osteen, says that dwelling on the past is like looking only in the rearview mirror and not seeing the magnificent vista spread out before the windshield. He says that we can and must make a conscious effort to change the channel of our internal television set and turn our minds away from the past so that we live our lives fully.
There’s a superstition in the Clarke family that the Christmas tree must be out of the house before the new year. Bill’s sister, Joyce, recounted instances of where bad luck ensued whenever the tree was left standing on New Year’s day. Bill says that he isn’t superstitious — just careful. I don’t believe in luck — good or bad — or superstitions. I hate having to pack away our cherished ornaments, but seeing them only once a year makes them special.
I don’t understand why I should celebrate the passing of one whole year of my precious life. “But we’re getting rid of the old and starting over,” people say. No matter what tragedies occurred last year, it was a good year for me. As to starting over, having broken so many New Year’s resolutions, I have no faith that I’ll do better next year.
Further, I guess I’m a morose sourpuss, but I don’t see what’s fun about standing for hours and freezing one’s butt like cattle in a pen on Times Square with no restroom. When they were young, friends of ours donned formal attire and went downtown to celebrate at a hotel. They knew no one at their table and no one spoke to them. “What a miserable evening that was.”
I do have some good memories of New Year’s Eve. Bill’s mother always gave us an assortment of cheeses and treats from Hickory Farms that we opened on New Year’s Eve. She was with us a few times, and I see her in my mind’s eye, sipping a dry martini and taking drags on a cigarette whose ash grew longer and longer while we watched Guy Lombardo performing at the Waldorf Astoria in New York.
Sometimes when the three grandboys were little they’d come to stay with us. We’d set out snacks, and they’d arrange their sleeping bags and pillows in front of the TV. One of them would announce, “I’m stayin’ up till midnight!” “Me too!” “Me too!” Needless to say, they were sound asleep by nine o’clock. They’re grown men now. In some ways it seems like only yesterday that those curly-headed boys were with us. In other ways it seems so long ago . . . so long ago . . . My cup runnneth over.
Indeed . . . for the days of old lang syne, my dears . . .
wclarke@comcast.net