July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
New Year's Eve not what it used to be (01/04/05)
Back in the Saddle
By By JACK RONALD-
There’s an old song that goes, “What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve?”
These days, it seems, the answer is “Not much.”
It’s either evidence of changing times or my advancing years — or both — but New Year’s Eve has moved down several notches in the pantheon of holidays.
It’s still several steps up from Presidents’ Day or Columbus Day, but it’s not what it used to be, back in the day that that old song was popular.
Growing up, of course, every kids’ dream was to be able to stay up until midnight. Then, if the parents or babysitter agreed, it was okay to break out the noisemakers or even shout a “Happy New Year” to the neighborhood.
These days, however, staying up to midnight sometimes requires a cat-nap in front of the TV about 10 p.m. Even then, I may have to be roused from my slumber to toast the change of calendar and toddle off to bed.
Every year, I swear it will be different.
Last week, I think I asked my wife a dozen times if she wanted to go out somewhere to celebrate the holiday. Every time, the answer was a non-committal shrug. Social inertia sets in at a certain age and can be tough to shake off.
Packaged New Year’s celebrations at restaurants and lodges simply guarantee that you’ll ring in the year with strangers. And most of us are too worn out by Christmas and its accompanying household mess to be in the mood to have folks over.
But it wasn’t always this way.
If I look back about 25 or 30 years ago, I can recall a memorable New Year’s Eve that involved not one but three separate parties.
The evening started in Portland at the home of Quentin and Libby Imel. That was a pretty low-key affair, at least early in the evening, more like a post-Christmas party than anything else.
But after socializing there, we drove to Redkey for party number two, with George Barfield and his family, who were friends of ours.
From there, we made a short trip to Dunkirk where Bob and Rosie Clamme lived at the time. Finally, after celebrating the arrival of 1976 or whatever it was, we’d head for home in Portland.
Looking back, it seems like a foolish and potentially dangerous odyssey. Certainly it’s something no sensible person would attempt in this era of heightened vigilance on the highways.
But, just the same, I have to admit that it did qualify as a celebration.[[In-content Ad]]
These days, it seems, the answer is “Not much.”
It’s either evidence of changing times or my advancing years — or both — but New Year’s Eve has moved down several notches in the pantheon of holidays.
It’s still several steps up from Presidents’ Day or Columbus Day, but it’s not what it used to be, back in the day that that old song was popular.
Growing up, of course, every kids’ dream was to be able to stay up until midnight. Then, if the parents or babysitter agreed, it was okay to break out the noisemakers or even shout a “Happy New Year” to the neighborhood.
These days, however, staying up to midnight sometimes requires a cat-nap in front of the TV about 10 p.m. Even then, I may have to be roused from my slumber to toast the change of calendar and toddle off to bed.
Every year, I swear it will be different.
Last week, I think I asked my wife a dozen times if she wanted to go out somewhere to celebrate the holiday. Every time, the answer was a non-committal shrug. Social inertia sets in at a certain age and can be tough to shake off.
Packaged New Year’s celebrations at restaurants and lodges simply guarantee that you’ll ring in the year with strangers. And most of us are too worn out by Christmas and its accompanying household mess to be in the mood to have folks over.
But it wasn’t always this way.
If I look back about 25 or 30 years ago, I can recall a memorable New Year’s Eve that involved not one but three separate parties.
The evening started in Portland at the home of Quentin and Libby Imel. That was a pretty low-key affair, at least early in the evening, more like a post-Christmas party than anything else.
But after socializing there, we drove to Redkey for party number two, with George Barfield and his family, who were friends of ours.
From there, we made a short trip to Dunkirk where Bob and Rosie Clamme lived at the time. Finally, after celebrating the arrival of 1976 or whatever it was, we’d head for home in Portland.
Looking back, it seems like a foolish and potentially dangerous odyssey. Certainly it’s something no sensible person would attempt in this era of heightened vigilance on the highways.
But, just the same, I have to admit that it did qualify as a celebration.[[In-content Ad]]
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