Celebrating the New Year’s arrival was my mother’s idea. If I had been 9 that year it would have made it 1948. It could have been any year from ’46 to ’50; years run together and when memory fails it can substitute a plausible, alternative story. Staying up until the midnight hour was not in our playbook. Dad milked the cow and tended to the morning chores before breakfast. His morning routine was geared to their needs and that meant early to bed - early to rise, every day. His ride picked him up at 5:30 A.M. for the long ride into the city and his (tool & die maker) factory job. After that Mom rolled us out and made a second round of breakfast. Weekends were more relaxed for us but with barn animals, their days are all the same.
On New Year’s Eve we listened to the radio. Guy Lombardo’s big band broadcast their annual show from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York. They were an hour ahead of us so we got to hear the countdown at 11:00 and again at midnight our time. As the hour grew near we took on popcorn and Kool-Aid, trying to sing along when we knew the words. The weather was mild that year so we went outside, left the door open and the radio turned up. As the band struck up, Auld Lang Syne we started shouting “Happy New Year”, banging on our pots & pans, improvised orchestra. From up and down the road our scattered neighbors were doing the same with shotguns, bells and horns honking. Once back inside, lights out and sound-asleep came without delay.
New Year’s Day, whatever the day of the week, Dad had milked the cow and was back in the house before we woke up. It was special when we all sat down to breakfast together. Poached eggs on toast with oatmeal was good as it gets. It would be six weeks to Valentine’s Day and that meant exchanging valentines at school. If we gave valentines at all we gave one to everybody. You didn’t leave anyone out. There was a moral principle there. But from January 1 to February 14, there was nothing to celebrate. It was just cold and winter. So we milked as much satisfaction as we could from the end of year calendar. Had I known about Winter Solstice I could have measured shorter shadows and timed later sunsets.
2022; OMG. I remember KY2, the calendar rolling over like my car’s odometer, not just one century to the next but millennium to millennium, 1999 to 2000. Twenty two years ago computers were all calibrated to the 20th century with no guarantee they would not crash when the #1 flipped over to #2. It all panned out without a crisis and we went on as if nobody cared. I was 60 with a boss, students and my own keys to the building. It was another century and I didn’t give much thought to a future 22 years up the road. It was before 9/11, before mass shootings were the norm and conspiracy theories were laughable nonsense.
At this point the idea of being born into the 21st century is scary. My culture was forgiving but then I was a poor little white boy. We got to live wherever we could afford and my dad made it into the skilled trades. My parents were God fearing, hard working survivors of the Great Depression. We had enough to get by. Sometimes things broke down but the only response to falling down was getting back up. People of color my age would certainly tell a different story. To be honest, I don’t know what my grandchildren are up against. There are no guarantees and no one is in control. I hope their ride is as rewarding as mine has been. But like my grandpa told me when I said I wanted to be like him; he said, “I don’t think you will be that lucky.” It may be too much to believe that they will be that lucky.
On New Year’s Eve we listened to the radio. Guy Lombardo’s big band broadcast their annual show from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York. They were an hour ahead of us so we got to hear the countdown at 11:00 and again at midnight our time. As the hour grew near we took on popcorn and Kool-Aid, trying to sing along when we knew the words. The weather was mild that year so we went outside, left the door open and the radio turned up. As the band struck up, Auld Lang Syne we started shouting “Happy New Year”, banging on our pots & pans, improvised orchestra. From up and down the road our scattered neighbors were doing the same with shotguns, bells and horns honking. Once back inside, lights out and sound-asleep came without delay.
New Year’s Day, whatever the day of the week, Dad had milked the cow and was back in the house before we woke up. It was special when we all sat down to breakfast together. Poached eggs on toast with oatmeal was good as it gets. It would be six weeks to Valentine’s Day and that meant exchanging valentines at school. If we gave valentines at all we gave one to everybody. You didn’t leave anyone out. There was a moral principle there. But from January 1 to February 14, there was nothing to celebrate. It was just cold and winter. So we milked as much satisfaction as we could from the end of year calendar. Had I known about Winter Solstice I could have measured shorter shadows and timed later sunsets.
2022; OMG. I remember KY2, the calendar rolling over like my car’s odometer, not just one century to the next but millennium to millennium, 1999 to 2000. Twenty two years ago computers were all calibrated to the 20th century with no guarantee they would not crash when the #1 flipped over to #2. It all panned out without a crisis and we went on as if nobody cared. I was 60 with a boss, students and my own keys to the building. It was another century and I didn’t give much thought to a future 22 years up the road. It was before 9/11, before mass shootings were the norm and conspiracy theories were laughable nonsense.
At this point the idea of being born into the 21st century is scary. My culture was forgiving but then I was a poor little white boy. We got to live wherever we could afford and my dad made it into the skilled trades. My parents were God fearing, hard working survivors of the Great Depression. We had enough to get by. Sometimes things broke down but the only response to falling down was getting back up. People of color my age would certainly tell a different story. To be honest, I don’t know what my grandchildren are up against. There are no guarantees and no one is in control. I hope their ride is as rewarding as mine has been. But like my grandpa told me when I said I wanted to be like him; he said, “I don’t think you will be that lucky.” It may be too much to believe that they will be that lucky.
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