海角大神

Banging in the New Year

Every New Year鈥檚 Eve, when the clock struck midnight, my family in St. Louis turned into a traveling percussion section. Pots, pans, wooden spoons 鈥� the whole kitchen emptied as though it were fleeing a fire. My father claimed it was an old Irish custom brought over by my great-grandparents, who must have believed the cacophony chased away bad spirits.

We鈥檇 run outside clanging and shouting, the air cold enough to freeze the echo. Neighbors peeked from behind curtains as though we were the circus that missed its train. Still, we marched down the block, banging, laughing, and hollering 鈥淗appy New Year!鈥� at anyone unfortunate enough to open their door.聽

At 7 years old, I thought it was glorious. Wild drumming, total mayhem, and parental approval. My grandmother banged a frying pan like it owed her money, and my grandfather led the charge, saucepan in hand.

Only years later did I realize how peculiar we must have looked: a clan of lunatics clanging cookware beneath the streetlights. But to us, it wasn鈥檛 madness; it was inheritance. Ireland had its bodhrans; we had Teflon.

The next morning, some pans would be bent, the spoons splintered, and anarchic trails left in the snow. But the year always felt properly started. Some families watched the ball drop. Ours just made sure the neighborhood never forgot we existed.

鈥� Jeffery Allen Tobin

A toast to quiet contemplation聽

In high school and college, New Year鈥檚 Eve meant one thing: party time. For everyone, that is, except me. While my buddies cajoled me to go out with them, my mom, who hails from Japan, encouraged 鈥� er, mandated 鈥� our family to spend the evening together in 鈥渜uiet reflection.鈥� (This is in line with how the holiday is celebrated in Japan, where it most closely resembles America鈥檚 Thanksgiving.) 聽

On New Year鈥檚 Eve, my mom prepares gyoza, or Japanese dumplings, cooked four ways: shrimp- or pork-filled, steamed or fried. We sit around the table with a stack of dumpling skins, big bowls of the fillings, and fold and pinch, fold and pinch, until we have a mountain or two of dumplings. The past couple of years, my 6- and 9-year-old boys have started to help, too. My mom also makes toshikoshi soba, a simple but elegant noodle dish. The noodles represent a bridge from the past to the present, from the present to the future, as a new year unfolds.

Sometime around the middle of my college years, while my friends froze outside in long lines for the privilege of paying a $50 entrance fee to a sardine can, and another $30 for a beverage, if they could navigate past the throng of sweaty, shouting partygoers, I realized I had the better part of the deal, by far. Here鈥檚 to quiet reflection and delicious food.

鈥� Zachary Przystup

Digital Diary聽

Growing up in the digital age, I have had much of my life documented, from old home videos with my siblings to hundreds of prints neatly tucked away on the top shelf of my grandma鈥檚 closet.

In 2017, I decided I wanted to document my life myself.聽

Feeling inspired in my bubble-gum pink bedroom, I set up my phone, perched on my trendy butterfly chair, and whispered quietly to the camera about the prior year.聽

I talked about how I met my best friend, started high school, and got an A on my first research paper. I also lamented my sister leaving home to go to college, and moving into a new house I didn鈥檛 quite like.聽

The short video offered space for reflection for the past year and excitement for the new one.

Before I knew it, 2018 was coming to an end. Again, I perched on my chair and whispered to my phone everything I learned and saw that year. Then again, each year after that. These videos have captured me getting my driver鈥檚 permit, meeting my current partner, receiving college acceptances, and getting my first job.聽

Whenever I stumble across a video, I feel as though I鈥檓 catching up with an old friend as I listen to her words, joys, and losses. It allows me to see all the ways I鈥檝e grown, the dreams I鈥檝e achieved, and the promise each new year holds. 聽

鈥� Victoria Hoffmann

Counting down in comfort

One New Year鈥檚 Eve in my 20s, a young woman I knew from college invited me to her party. When my roommate and I arrived, we saw people I knew from school but hadn鈥檛 clicked with. I wanted to leave immediately. But first, we had to dance to 鈥淧ump Up the Jam.鈥�

We stayed, and I started to enjoy myself and revel in the camaraderie, not wanting the evening to end. On the drive home, my friend and I replayed every detail, still giddy. Days later came the best surprise: a handful of photos from the festivities, taken on film.

I still have the pictures in my photo album, 30-some years later. Nights like that were milestones in my young adulthood. Now, as an empty nester, my life holds different joys.聽

There鈥檚 a freedom that comes with maturing and tuning in to what lights you up. For me, it鈥檚 quiet and stillness, especially on raucous nights like New Year鈥檚 Eve.

Staying home in loungewear with a good book sounds divine. While others are out celebrating, we order in Chinese and my husband puts the countdown on. It鈥檚 simple and familiar, and there鈥檚 no place I鈥檇 rather be.聽

鈥� Courtenay Rudzinski聽

Grape expectations聽

My husband鈥檚 great-grandmother insisted the grapes had to be big and red, with seeds. For years, we ran around New York鈥檚 Chinatown in the cold searching for proper grapes to ring in the new year the Cuban way. Tata was adamant that, at midnight, we had to peel and eat a dozen grapes, one for each month of the coming year.

Observing this tradition, we would diligently peel the fruit and remove the seeds for good fortune. Sticky juice would roll down our wrists, and thin skins would pile up on our plates. We would make a wish upon each grape. I treated mine like birthday candles, keeping my hopes for health, wealth, and world peace a secret. My spouse, on the other hand, announced things such as聽

鈥淚 hope the next one is less sour,鈥� and 鈥淚 wish next year鈥檚 grapes are easier to peel.鈥澛�

My husband and I now live in suburban New Jersey, but after toasting with sparkling cider, we still celebrate the new year by eating 12 grapes. Our girls, 9 and 14 years old, are old enough to stay up until midnight. No longer under the watchful eye of Tata, who passed away years ago at nearly 108, we鈥檝e stopped peeling our grapes, purchased at the local supermarket.

I might start peeling the grapes again this year, though. I feel like the world could use some extra good fortune.

鈥� Ingrid Ahlgren