It’s a bit difficult to explain the intricacies of first footing to my friends because I don’t exactly comprehend the ritual myself. I know it’s a Scottish custom but it’s very likely practiced in other places, too.

A first-footer refers to the first person to cross your threshold after midnight on Dec. 31. And you have to be ever so careful about who makes that visit or you’ll have no luck at all for the rest of the year. First it must be a man. Women are regarded as dangerous and a woman might possibly be a witch.

Nor is just any man acceptable. He must be a dark man. Neither a blond nor worse yet, a redhead must even think about first-footing you. Though the worse possible visitor is a red-haired woman.

I have read that fair or redheaded men are undesirable as first footers because Celts and Vikings were the early invaders, who left bad memories.

Since coming to Minnesota, I have met rather few dark men. I did know one, alas no longer on this plane of existence. While he lived, however, he was very kind about visiting me as soon after the New Year came in as possible. Though he did think it was typical of the Scots that they expected the first-footers to bring the traditional gifts of food and money.

I explained that it didn’t require much of either, just a token gift of both. Thereafter he always arrived at the proper moment carrying a slice of bread folded into a sandwich around a nickel.

I understand that in former years, the Scottish people were more inclined to celebrate New Year’s than Christmas. Their celebrations were a bit barbaric I thought.

Men would arrive at your home with a basket or tub full of unopened bottles of liquor. Each would find a comfortable spot and drink from first one bottle and then the next. When morning came the man still standing, with the most empty bottles was declared the winner.

Quite often my parents would take me and any other of my mother’s family left over from the Christmas holiday and catch a 6 a.m. train to the little town near my uncle’s farm. My uncle, my mother’s brother, would meet us at the station and the family would pick up the party from where they left off a week earlier.

No drinking at our celebrations, but lots of noise.

My father was an electrician for Wilson Packing House and for Christmas they always gave him a big beautiful ham. A few slices would be cut off for breakfast treats, but my mother baked most of the ham all seasoned up with brown sugar and cloves.

In the evening of New Year’s, the neighbors, children and adults, would join us to ride down a patchwork of hills near our house on the big red bobsled that my father had made and painted to be used by members of my mother’s Campfire Girls Group.

It would be fairly late before we grew tired and cold. When we were well frozen we’d go back to my house, eat ham sandwiches and drink hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick in each cup topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

This column is scheduled to appear Thursday, 12th Night. I always try to get my Christmas greetings out by that time. I’m a bit late this year, but then I usually am. One time I got all-CPAY cards out by Dec. 25th and one of my colleagues at The Tribune said, rather unkindly I thought, that they must have been ones from the previous Christmas.

Whether they were or not is not important. If I haven’t yet wished you a happy year to come I do so now.

In words from an old Scottish toast &045; “May the best you’ve ever seen be the worst you’ll ever see &045; May you aye be just as happy as I wish you now to be.”

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)