In addition to the mixed-holiday traditions observed by our family—Christmas, Chanukah, and more than just a touch of pagan-sentiment Yule—I've developed one that might appeal to naturalists and gardeners, who are, after all, one and the same. I call it "turning over the year," and it involves going out to my little plot of dirt and shade as close to January 1st as possible to turn over a small section of garden. As I dig, I bury all the bad things that have happened during the year and, so goes my thought pattern, unearth hope. Since 2016 was not a great year, there's a lot to put into the ground, which, by climate history, should have required dynamite to break up. But it's been mostly warm, and the earth was completely unfrozen. So Stasia and I dug and chattered happily, then she talked about what she was burying—mostly deceased pets; I didn't talk about my fears over the outcome of the election, which I'd happily have put deep in the ground—and when we unearthed an unharvested fingerling potato or two, we felt especially blessed by good luck. Bad fortune ceremonially dispelled, we turned our thoughts to dinner.