I don’t remember New Year’s Eve growing up. Did we celebrate? I haven’t a clue.
Looking back to my young adult life there are shadows of memories, parties, mistletoe, uncomfortable whispers about being single. Trying to act like I was having fun.
And then time skips like a record jumping the track, and the music playing is in very early married life. BC. Before children. Parties, music, laughter, people loud and boisterous, high on booze. Elliot and I sitting in a corner snacking on liver pate and crackers, wondering what the hell we were doing there.
Another time-space jump finds us in our own home with three kids. New Year’s Eve suddenly became important. Yes, they could stay up. Yes, they could taste the champagne, but only a sip! Those were the fun years, the five of us huddled around the table, big platters of deli meat: turkey, roast beef, salami, tongue, pickles, sauerkraut, mustard, rye bread, potato salad, coleslaw, chips, soda. Thick sandwiches, gooey cake for dessert. The television stayed on, watching the ball drop in Times Square. The countdown, the hugs and kisses, then off to bed with full tummies.
True, the years were sprinkled with occasional parties that so many years later still found Elliot and me huddled over a bowl of chips wondering what the hell we were doing there. Followed by a quick retreat home the following year.
Decades have passed. All too quickly the kids are gone. Parties still attempted occasionally, but more often refused.
Lavish food no longer tolerated late at night. All that remains is watching the ball drop in Times Square, then a sip of champagne, a spoonful of gooey dessert, and off to bed.