We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet

Her friends will rejoice to hear that the fractured shoulder is perfectly healed and arm mobility sufficiently restored that hill-climbing is once again a feature of Jan's life. How glad we are. With Winnipeg Steve keen to get some Vancouver Island mud on his hiking boots we three joined Mary and Mike for an impromptu ramble in the Gowlland Range, to Jocelyn Hill.

Birds were a target, specifically one bird, the pine grosbeak, usually rare in these parts, but spotted the day before. Denied a sighting before reaching the Jocelyn summit, we at last saw one, then another, then a gang of five, finally maybe a dozen in all. The hill's abundance of arbutus berries was the obvious draw, not just for the grosbeaks, but for platoons of cedar waxwings and a whole division of robins.

Friends are important enough that wordsmiths write poems about them, and novels and plays, even a well known sitcom or two. I find life seldom sweeter than when spent hanging out with pals, whether sharing lightheartedness and licorice allsorts on a nearby hill, or communing with a wee dram on the cabin porch at Big Bras d'Or.

We passed Christmas in Coquitlam with Lexi and Ben, Doug and Allison, Steven too. Stockings were well stuffed and turkey plentiful but what I liked best was exactly what I anticipated: heading outdoors to turn over rotting logs with young Lexi. No, we didn't find a salamander -- except the plastic one the four-year-old planted when I wasn't looking -- but the little naturalist was happy with the next best thing: a clutch of eggs including one nearly as blue as sapphire.

After Christmas the Coquitlamites returned the visit. We took Lexi to see the woolly mammoth at the BC Museum and all the creatures of the natural history section. Asked why the birds didn't fly, we explained they once did, but are now lifeless and stuffed. Lexi seemed unfazed. In the evening I played Hearts with Jan's sons and marveled at the show of brotherly love exhibited by Doug when Steve didn't play as his younger sibling felt he ought to. The thought occurred that I might resolve to be more carefree about mere games.

Given that this is the last day of dear old 2012 my mind turns to other potential resolutions. Donald Trump might resolve to exercise his brain at least as frequently as he does his mouth. Stephen Harper might decide to rule as though he enjoyed the support of only four voters in ten. Kim Jong-il could vow to recall that what goes up must necessarily come down. As for me, I find as old age deepens that my pledges grow rather less ambitious: remember my prunes . . . turn off the stove . . . look both ways before crossing the street.

Whatever you resolve, gentle reader, may it leave you content rather than cranky, healthy instead of haggard, vitalized rather than vexed.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.