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Long-winded tale of my New Year's Eve (no OTR)
(This is, by way of warning, just me blithering away with random thoughts,
attempting to add something of myself besides queries and debates to this
list. I needed to write. You're the unwitting forum. I'd enjoy hearing
similar reviews of your own holiday celebrations, too. (Thank you Liesel!))
Like Liesel, I spent New Year's Eve at Mom's. Isn't it funny how, no matter
what ideas you have in your head, you always eventually wind up exactly where
you belong?
I, also like Liesel, had one other less-than-stellar-sounding party
invitation for the evening. Torn, I presented the options to my son: the
party (he would have known people, there were other children expected, etc),
First Night Annapolis (cultural hodgepodge of performers at venues around
town... family-compatible, very entertaining, but wandering about in 20
degree weather makes it less so), or stay home and watch tv, play games, etc.
He deliberated for about ten seconds, and chose one not on the list:
"Can't we go down and hang out at Nana's?"
We headed out about 6:30ish. Took my waffle iron and my telescope (New
Year's Eve essentials, as you'll see!)
The three of us (Mom, Ben and I. My stepfather Paul, whose kitchen it has
been for at least twenty years, knows that three bodies is more than enough
in such a small space, particularly when all three are complete klutzes, and
left us be...) puttered about in the kitchen waffling (well, it isn't
"ironing"... LOL) and wound up with a batch of cinnamon-nutmeg-spice waffles
and a batch of hazelnut-almond ones... with real Vermont maple syrup and
scrambled eggs and sausage for a late dinner.
I popped outside and checked the sky at about 10, but it was mostly cloudy.
The spotlights from the Annapolis City Dock were playing over them, which
made it feel festive, but moon and stars were only peeking out now and again.
And it was very cold. I went back inside rather quickly.
Dick Clark appeared on the TV, looking younger than last year. Do you
suppose he has a son named Dick Jr. who will, by the time Dick Sr. departs
the planet, appear to be his twin, and simply pick up where his father left
off? Let's hope so, as he seems to me to be the Santa of New Year's. I
can't see how we'd have it without him, even though none of us ever pay much
actual attention to anything he's saying or doing... he's just there, in the
background, running things, presiding over The Ball.
We washed and dried the dishes assembly-line style in the aforementioned
teensy kitchen; I'd managed to use just about every mixing bowl and utensil
in the house, and we bumped elbows the entire time, but we laughed through
most of it. We played cards; Ben won most of the hands (honestly this year;
no parental subterfuge on his behalf required; further bittersweet proof that
he's not so young anymore)... and we eventually surrendered; much to his
triumph and delight. Shunning sappy, sad, or sensationalist year-end
reviews, we read wacky news bits on the Internet, including the following: In
Canada, you can arrange for a $2.50 suicide-prevention option on some cars
now; it prevents a hose from being attached to the tailpipe. (I found that
little snippet a good enough metaphor for 2001...)
If I'd hidden a teeny secret wish to be spirited off into another life, to be
decked out in fancy clothes, dancing in the New Year amidst champagne and
confetti and hilarity, it was spirited off long before midnight; the warmth
and silliness and comfort of my closest family is, when I take time to
consider it, something I wouldn't trade for all the glitter and sparkle in
the world. I wish I could remember that more consciously sometimes. Ben
knew it was where we belonged.
Passing through the room at one point, I did a minor double-take and noted
how Madonna's performance (on Dick's show) was so much less... provocative...
than anything she did ten years ago. Being in a reflective mood, I wondered
if it was another a sign-o-the-times, or just her own changing that caused
the switch. Her show was apparently sold-out, nonetheless, so I imagine at
least that many people were happy enough with her not to require anything
shocking to draw them in.
Five minutes before midnight, we gathered in the living room, by the
Christmas tree, to watch The Ball drop in NY. My mother was much impressed
by the stats on the ball: Waterford crystal, and engraved with the names of
the companies and firehouses and police districts involved in the WTC
disaster. I had the morbid thought that it wasn't exactly the symbol I'd
want, had I been involved... dropping into an explosion of fireworks... but
Mom tssked me and said it was intended to be honorary. I let it go.
We somewhat absent-mindedly completely skipped the usual glass-clinking
toasts. And when I thought about it later, what, really, was there to say,
anyway, besides counting one's blessings and stating the obvious "Thank God
it's over, let's hope the next one's better"? That's been done and said
quite often lately. What's left, in my mind, is simply this: We are. We
will continue to be, for a least this little bit longer. Toasting that
simple fact seems so extraneous, to me, this year; I'm not sorry we forgot it.
The local-live TV coverage of the fireworks in Baltimore went on for 20
minutes or half an hour, but fireworks on TV leave a little to be desired.
(There are a dozen good metaphors here; choose your favorite.) Suddenly
quite tired, I puttered about, packed up things, and I traipsed out to the
car with the waffle iron and the leftovers.
The sky was startlingly clear. Many glorious stars, a brilliant moon, and
there was no doubt about which shining point was Jupiter, immediately
overhead and brighter than anything else in the sky. Far more awake than I
had been five minutes earlier, I announced this wonderous change of weather
pattern, and out came the telescope. While Ben handed me lenses and I tried
to figure out which offered the best view, Mom bundled up, and Paul deigned
to don shoes (He wears socks only with suits, I kid you not. I have a
fabulous picture of him snow-blowing multiple inches of snow out of their
driveway, bundled in his winter coat, hat, scarf, gloves, sweatpants and ...
boat shoes. Sockless, ankles exposed. The neighbor in the background is
wearing one of those full-face ski masks. It's classic.)
I was initially mildly disappointed, as I expected to be able to see
something akin to photographs, and really, my telescope is only a small
instrument. I also wasn't keen on playing with it TOO long; my fingers were
becoming painfully cold. It was with unmitigated delight, however, that I
found three (four?) moons lined up neatly near the fuzzy pink planet,
completely invisible to the naked eye, but marching quite firmly in a row
through the lenses. I can understand why ancient civilizations found meaning
in the alignment of the specks in the sky... they do invoke a weighty and
portentious feeling in wee hours in the cold and quiet.
After we marvelled at that pretty scene for a while, I swiveled it over to
look at the moon; the telescope IS powerful enough to reveal stunning details
and make you feel as though you ought to be able to pick out a flag or two
that we left behind on the surface. The craters are always a thrill... very
very exciting for a ball of rock that's hanging above us every day of our
lives.
After everyone had a look at that, too, they scurried inside to rewarm, and I
popped the telescope in the car. Departure was delayed only by the
appearance on the TV of a Cirque Du Solais creature who could quite literally
sit on her head. I joined them in gaping at her, all still standing there in
our winter coats, for a good eight or ten minutes while she contorted. Quite
odd. The juxtaposition of wonders (everything from the waffles onward) kept
me plenty awake while we exchanged hugs and Ben and I went driving away, very
carefully and defensively, and with the heater on high.
When I got in at 2am, I found a charming phone message from my
far-but-not-too-far-away sweetie, and the very first email of the New Year
from (amazing in it's own right) my grandfather! (The man is 83, and usually
only reluctantly employs his MailStation, the compromise upon which he and my
mother settled a year ago when she felt he ought to have a computer, and he
decided he wasn't up for trying to learn "all that Internet stuff.") He'd
sent a bulk-note to all of us (my cousins, my aunt and uncle, my mother, my
brother and I) saying that he wished us the best year ever, and that he
couldn't have a nicer family. He signed it "Your patriarch." I'm tickled.
I slept well.
Happy New Year, y'all. ;)
Anita
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