It’s a few weeks past the beginning of the new year, but starting a new tradition means letting the world know.

About 10 years ago our potluck supper club in Raleigh — before we escaped to the mountains — started a tradition of celebrating New Year’s Eve together in a big house at the beach. With nearly 20 members between the ages of 3 and 75, the amount of activity under one roof was surpassed only by the accompanying noise level.

Each meal was an event in itself as an army of revellers each contributed their own talents toward our celebration of friendship and gluttony, heavily dosed with laughter and wine. After dinner our “Un-talent Show” followed and silly gifts were exchanged accompanied by hugs and bad jokes as we awaited the magic midnight hour.

When the ball in Times Square completed it’s long awaited descent, glasses clinked to the sounds of noise-makers, smacking lips, well wishes and fairly incessant laughter. Five minutes later with glasses refilled we would head en masse to the shoreline for dancing, banging on pots and pans, howling at the moon whether it was visible or not, and to enjoy the fireworks being shot from other parties up and down the beach. A toast was made to do it again next year, even better.

Things have changed in the past decade as job transfers, retirements and shifting relationships have whittled away at our little pack, but each year some configuration has returned to the sandy scene of our celebratory crimes.

This year was no exception as our aging gang assembled at Pawleys Island, S.C., to have another go at welcoming in the next 365 days on planet Earth. They came from Florida, Michigan, the Triangle and we from the NC mountains, the youngest now 13, the oldest 85 years young and going strong. My twist this year was to give gifts of outlandish clothing to wear at the midnight fling gathered from area thrift stores in colors and patterns normally reserved for bad LSD trips. I donned an overly multi-colored Kwanza-wannabe shirt from China matched with cocktail motif pants. Frank joyously modeled his gifted pair of insanely bold red plaid pants that made a fire truck pale by comparison. All enjoyed my tokens of good taste, or the lack thereof.

With everyone properly clad for the end of ‘04 we watched the ball drop in a frenzy of pigments, prints and sequins. Minutes later we made for the beach with a pair of African drums, noise-makers and open champagne bottles. At 12:20 in the New Year half the crowd raised their white surrender flags and headed off to bed.

Frank, Rick and I however decided that we were just getting warmed up and that the night was still young. We convinced ourselves that there was a party out there somewhere waiting for us, genuinely needing us, and all we had to do was find it. So with plastic hats, drums and champagne in hand, the three moving fashion violations headed down the beach in search of a place to continue our revelry.

Maybe it was Divine Spirit — or perhaps and more likely Bacardi spirits that led us — but 100 yards down the beach we found a lit up house with music coming from the open doors. I urged my two friends to head for the light, but they developed some last-minute doubts (or courtesies) and sent me alone up the walkway over the dunes, fully expecting me to come running back toward the beach in a matter of seconds with bullets whizzing over my shoulders accompanied by shouts of “... and STAY OUT !”

I knocked on the door with my drum in one hand and a champagne bottle in the other. I was met by a lovely 30-something brunette and offered her the New Years banner around my neck and our best wishes for 2005. With only slight reservation (gee, I wonder why) she and her friends invited me in to join their party. I whistled back to the nervous duo at the end of the walkway that we’d gotten the green light and we were greeted curiously by our hosts, one of whom just happened to be a professional drum instructor.

An hour and a half flew by as we drummed, drank some more champagne and laughed with our new found friends. At 2 a.m. we bid our gracious hosts good night and a happy 2005 and wandered back down the along the shore, the waves laughing with us as we retold the first adventure of the new year to ourselves and any unfortunate seagull who happened by.

I awoke the next morning a little fuzzy from head to toe about the details of the past night but found a business card in the pocket of my cocktail pants from Tony the drum pro and knew that it had not been just a mixed drink dream. We all laughed over coffee as we packed up for the long drive home after another successful New Years at the beach. Our wives couldn’t believe that they had actually let us in the door.

When I got back to Sylva I emailed our new friend Tony with thanks for their hospitality and best wishes for 2005. He replied back later that our “invasion” was the highlight of their otherwise bland New Years party and that the story was still being told with laughter and disbelief by those who were not eyewitnesses.

I now have a new New Years tradition. (Does one time constitute a tradition?) Sometime after midnight, walk up to a stranger wearing your more peculiar garments with your goodwill in hand and wish them all the best in the coming year. You may just make someone smile, or they just might invite you in for champagne and sweets with all their friends.

On second thought, there is really no reason to put it off for another 12 months.

(John Beckman is a builder, organic farmer and part-time fashion consultant in Sylva. He can be reached at info@unahwi-ridge.com.)