"But how do they keep the flaming turf on the pitchfork?" my Dad asked, a year ago, as we prepared to witness the village New Year's celebration for the first time. I had no idea. I had just moved there. I wasn't even sure it would be happening, as my source kept noting the whole thing was "unofficial," a status my father, retired insurance executive, could certainly appreciate. But at midnight I walked down to the village main street with my visiting parents and waited, uncertain, for bagpipes and flaming turf.