Reflections of...

The way life used to be...

At dinner sometime in this past week — I am unable to tell you what exact day because we are in the void of Christmas-New Years when time ceases to have meaning and I think it is Tuesday every day — Billy all of a sudden piped up with, “Do you think I should go to my first New Years party this year?”

Dan and I, of course, embarked on a nostalgic remembrance of New Years Eves Past. Dan remembers party-hopping with me in St. Paul, and I really don’t so if someone reading this does, please let me know! The first NYE I recall with Dan involved the best sparkling wine either of us had ever had before or since. We bought it at Thomas Liquor on Grand Ave in St. Paul, and the man who assisted us described it as “yeasty.” My dear husband has described it as “yeasty” for close to 25 years now, but heck if we’ve ever found it again.

My earliest memories of celebrating the coming of the New Year is with my brother and our favorite babysitter, Mary. We thought it was the height of adultish excitement to order pizza to be delivered at 11pm, and then open wide the front door at midnight to bang pots and pans and welcome the new year.

In middle school, I stayed up on my own in our living room, listening to John Garabedian, the Wild Armenian welcome the New Year on Open House Party, his radio show on which New Kids On the Block was a frequent guest. I wonder what else I was doing? There wasn’t a TV in that room… was I reading a book? Your guess is as good as mine!

Sophomore year of high school, I hosted a party in our basement. There was glitter and Coca-Cola Classic and every kind of chip imaginable. Brian put on the double album he got for Christmas: Guns & Roses Use Your Illusion I & II. And yes, the lights were on the whole time, MOM.

In the middle of all of this nostalgia, Billy looked at us and queried, “Why were you guys always hanging out in people’s basements?” I didn’t know how to answer. That’s just what we did. The basement was usually ceded to the younger generation by the parents — it was a place of dirty jokes, maybe even some curse words. We could have snacks and watch movies and play music, and if parents were going to invade we had a solid few minutes warning before they reached the bottom of the stairs. The basement meant freedom, son.

I was working a shift at Green Mill in 1999. It was a Friday night, and I was vaguely hopeful that the world would short out and fall apart at midnight because then I wouldn’t have to work the morning shift the next day. Alas, Y2K came and went without a peep of trouble, and I toasted the new year with whatever customers didn’t have a party to attend… and showed up to work at 8 the next morning.

The most exciting NYE was the year Al Franken was running for U.S. Senate. Trampled by Turtles was playing the Orpheum Theater that night, and my parents had a pre-party at a nearby hotel. My dad was helping with Al’s campaign, so they had bonded enough that Al showed up to the party, and then sat behind us (with his amazing wife, Franni) at the show. I was a big fan of Al’s — his politics, his writing, and Stuart Smalley, so when I got a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night I was thrilled to my toes. (And the boys’ show was incredible, obviously — I love seeing them on great theater stages like the Orpheum, not in small part because I get to see the backstage area. As a theater kid, this is major wish fulfillment!)

Dan and I, for the most part, don’t make it until midnight. Well, ok, sometimes I do, but generally the pets and I mark the moment together (and Tim and I text if he has a show that night). We still mark the occasion together, however. This year, we set out a spread of hors d’oeuvres for ourselves and Em — her boyfriend, Breyden, had to work until 8, and Billy was at the aforementioned party (not in a basement). After dinner, Dan and Em wrapped me in a blanket, sat me in my Adirondack chair on the back deck, gave me a mug of mulled wine, and proceeded to put on a spectacular fireworks show in the snow. (Dan put on the show, Em was the official photographer.) Folks, fireworks were meant for the winter. Sitting in the bitter cold and watching the colorful explosions against a snowy backdrop was the perfect way to send out 2025. We set the old year on fire, in order for 2026 to rise from the ashes as a glorious, sparkling phoenix. (Figuratively, on many fronts, since for one thing it was 7pm and we were ready for bed.)

However we choose to mark the transition from one year to the next, I think it is important. No, not in the grand scheme of things — time is a construct and nothing has technically changed except I need a new calendar — but I appreciate the imagery of wiping the slate clean. As Anne Shirley said, “…[I]sn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”

Wishing you a happy and safe 2026, Dear Readers. Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie