In the summer of 1954, when my family’s neighbor Brad Proctor asked me to help with farm work, I did not know it would lead to me becoming a first footer.
I pedaled my bike 1 1/2 miles to help Brad put up hay. From then on, year-round, every afternoon, I milked cows and mucked stalls.
His mother-in-law, Mrs. Harris, lived with them. And whenever I ventured into the kitchen for a drink, Mrs. Harris told me tales of her youth in Scotland. Eventually, they decided to move Mrs. Harris to a nearby, almost secluded, house.
A few days before the end of the year, I stopped for another visit with Mrs. Harris. She clasped my hand. “I want you to be my first footer,” she said.
Well, I knew a lot about farm life, farm animals and an abundance of chores. However, I had no idea how to be a first footer. I did not want to insult Mrs. Harris. I squirmed before I asked, “Please, what is a first footer?”
“My great-great-great-grandparents passed the Scottish tradition through the family to me,” she said, explaining that a tall, dark-haired man must be the first to set foot in a house in the new year. “Because you are a dark-haired man, when …”
I interrupted her. “But I’m only 14 years old. That leaves me out.”
Mrs. Harris raised her hand to stop me. “The worst is for a woman to be my first visitor. Oh, Lordy, that’d guarantee bad luck all year.” She looked me up and down as she nodded her head. “Now, if you had red or blond hair, fear would shiver me with alarm at the sight of you on New Year’s Day.”
She chuckled. “However you do qualify. You’re the size of a man, and you have dark hair, so when your foot hits my threshold, you will bring me good fortune for the coming year.”
She winked. “Best you bring a gift, say bread, salt or coal. OK?”
When I got home, Mom listened to Mrs. Harris’ proposal to me. Then she said, “We have Scottish blood, too. Remember the cabbage, carrot and onion soup that we eat at noon each New Year’s Day? It’s also a custom that my Scottish ancestors practiced.”
“Why cabbage? I hate cabbage.”
“Cabbage represents abundance to some people.” Mom elbowed me aside to remove bread from the oven.
I did not want to take Mrs. Harris a lump of coal or a piece of firewood. And my Grandpa Ed would not like me taking his whiskey bottle. Ah, the perfect gift was on the kitchen counter.
Allowing that Mrs. Harris would be awake at 9 o’clock on New Year’s morning, I knocked on the door. Her wide grin almost stretched to the door sills.
She waved me in. I handed her a loaf of Mom’s fresh-baked bread.
I am a first footer!
