Doc wasn’t really sure just why he woke up so early this morning and went outside. It was cold, of course, as the first day of any new year is supposed to be. He and Mrs. Doc had watched some television of the parties taking place around the world, but then, about 11, he began thinking of the mystery he was reading, and how comforting and nice it is to lie in bed and read each night as part of a years-old routine.

So he went to bed and read. Mrs. Doc came in a few minutes later.

“Guess we’re getting old, Honey,” she said, smiling. “Can’t even stay up to watch the ball drop, can we?”

Doc smiled back. “Any doubts about their ability to get that ball dropped on Times Square? Me neither. They must be getting pretty good at it by now.”

So now, with the coming of dawn, with the coming of a new day, a new month, a new year, came an old Doc.

New year, but the same back yard. The trees get bigger and I get older. But maybe the trees and I get a little better, too. That’s something to kinda latch onto, isn’t it?

Doc walked over to the compost bin. Frozen, of course. And he looked at it and thought about the internal workings of the compost bin.

Despite the cold, there are worms in there chewing up old stuff and turning it into new stuff, and the new stuff is better than the old stuff, and the worms are earning a living doing it. What’s wrong with this?

Nothing. I guess that’s how it goes, if we’re lucky. Doctors get old, but they still deliver brand-new babies, with no warts or scars on them yet, and no one has taught them to be mean to others.

Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.