New Year’s Eve is one of my least favorite holidays. I hate that we Left-Coasters always get a delayed broadcast from Times Square, which makes our celebration nothing more than sloppy seconds. I suppose I also dislike New Year’s Eve because it reminds me of the one I spent at Tahoe, back in 1970.
Back then, my father used to let nurses from Marin General Hospital (where he was Chief of Staff) borrow our ski cabin for weekends with their families. The only requirement was that they provide a ride for me up to Tahoe and then shuttle me to my race training at Squaw Valley in the morning and back at the end of the day. A relatively small inconvenience for free lodging.
December 31st started out well enough and I spent a good six hours practicing giant slalom on the Red Dog run. A forecasted snow storm held off to the end of the day and I waited by the ticket booth for my 5 o’clock ride just as the flakes started to fall. And waited. And waited. It was past six when I gave up and hitched back to Tahoe City in the back of a pickup. Actually, it wasn’t that cold, since you are pretty sheltered riding behind the cab and my helmet kept my head warm (and presumably safer in an accident, I suppose).
I was dropped off a short block from my destination and wished my rescuers a Happy New Year. To my astonishment, my arrival at the Cabin didn’t raise any eyebrows, just a hasty explanation, “Oh, sorry, we forgot.” It turns out they were in a rush to drive down to the South Shore for the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet at Harrah’s. I went upstairs to get out of my race gear and when I came down five minutes later, they were gone.
Now, it seems to me that normal people would have offered to take me along, seeing how I was only fifteen and alone for the evening. I guess they weren’t normal. I decided to make the best of it and foraged in the kitchen, which was pretty bare. I cooked up a can of pork and beans for dinner and toasted marshmallows in the fireplace for dessert. At midnight, I lifted a glass of powdered lemonade drink to the New Year, turned off the lone T.V. station from Reno that broadcast in our area, and turned in.
The kind folks who had ditched me returned noisily at about 2 am and I don’t think I said another word to them the rest of the weekend. Their thoughtlessness put an end to our loaning out the cabin to anyone but family and friends, but that was fine with me, since I had my driver’s license by the next ski season.
In subsequent years, I am sure that I attended many year-end parties, but the fact that I can’t remember most of them is telling. The New Year’s Eve that I do recall fondly took place in 1999. No, we didn’t party like the famous Prince song, but my girlfriend/housemate (now my wife) and I spent a memorable evening together. As the rest of the world hunkered down in anticipation of the technological meltdown that was sure to take place at midnight because of “Y2K” (remember how worked up everyone got over that?), we cuddled in bed.Our love-making began in the last few minutes of 1999 and ended with a bang in 2000. I'm proud to say that there were no glitches and we can claim to have had a romp that lasted over two millennia.
In recent years, we have been going over to our neighbors, the Phelps, to party. We drink too much Limoncello liqueur, crack open heaps of Dungeness crab, dip poppy-seed cake and pineapple into the chocolate fountain and kiss each other as the ball drops in Times Square.
But, even though my New Year’s Eve has gotten more joyous, it is New Year’s Day that I truly celebrate. I say good-bye to the old year - with its Christmas rush, hangovers and bloated bellies - and welcome the newness of starting over.
I go for a quiet bike ride and reflect on how nature doesn’t need any artificial milestones to mark time. The redwing blackbirds flit from cattail to cattail on Rush Creek just the same as they did the day before, and the cinnamon teal and canvasbacks float serenely on the pond as I ride by. For them, every day is a new start, every moment an affirmation of life. I breathe in the cool air and the year stretches out in front of me like untracked snow.
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