Mama's roast pork was baked to a fair-thee-well and looked inviting alongside the Hopping John and collard greens. But I was young and wouldn't have eaten collards if Elvis himself had spoon-fed them to me.

I went to bed early that night with a terrible stomach ache from too many roast pork sandwiches, which was all the traditional food I allowed myself. I was sick as a dog and thought I might die.

I didn't, but my dog did. She up and croaked bright and early on January 2nd while we were eating breakfast. She was real old, but I was just a kid and that dog had been around all my life. Her departure hit me like those roast pork sandwiches had the night before. Daddy buried Susie Q in the back yard on that cold, dreary day while Mama and I cried and passed the Kleenex box back and forth.

Daddy was Police Chief, so he brought over prisoners from the jail to dig Susie's grave while he stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He wore a dark suit, which made him look like a Baptist preacher. Mama and I laughed so hard that we started crying again.

January 3rd, gave me something else to cry about. I set the kitchen on fire. I got hungry for the only thing I knew how to cook: French Fries, put oil in the frying pan and then realized we were out of potatoes.

Forgetting all about the frying pan on the stove, I grabbed my pocketbook and walked to the Piggly Wiggly for three pounds of potatoes.

Dilly-dallying home pretty much like Prissy in Gone With the Wind, I heard sirens. When I turned the corner, I saw three fire trucks parked in front of our house. Smoke poured out of the kitchen door and gawking neighbors lined the sidewalk. The kitchen was ruined. All the cabinets had to be repainted and the ceiling, too. Mama's new wallpaper was toast and so was I. I was afraid to sleep that night and scared to wake up the next morning, as well I should have been. Those three days were only a prelude to what the future had in store for me.

I have never spent a longer year than I did in 1960. For that reason, I became a born again believer in the magic of tradition.

When January 1, 1961 rolled around, I covered my sassy Southern you-know-what by eating a big plate of Hoppin' John, collard greens, roast pork, and even that Yankee ultra-delight, sauerkraut. I have been doing it every year since.

It is my hope that you all will plan to do much the same to insure 2009 brings you nothing but good luck and the very best possible year!