Ghosts of New Years' Past

Although New Years was never a big photo op around the Morgan place, it was a special time, especially when I was a small kid. My memories begin in our little house in Jerome when I was perhaps four or five and the only child. My parents were still devoted to the music of their younger days, the jazz, swing and big band sounds they had grown up with in the thirties and early forties. Dad had even played a few wind instruments in dance bands during his college years and was a big fan of the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw etc. Since that was what they often played, I became familiar with that music too.

By the time they were parents and had settled in Arizona, Mom's and Dad’s partying days were over. I don’t think Mom was ever into that scene too much but from what he told my brother when Charlie got interested in music, it seems that Dad was. He knew about the long, skinny joints lots of the musicians smoked and other such tidbits. I was never regaled with such tales; I suppose in the interest of preserving my innocence and ladyhood! But that was all in the past even in the late forties when my memories begin.

Anyway, on New Year’s Eve, the radio was tuned to hear the New Year in from coast to coast and to listen to the popular music of the times in various clubs from New York to Chicago or Kansas City, maybe Denver and on out to the west coast. That night I was allowed to come into the “big bed” in Mom and Dad’s room and snuggle under the covers to listen, too. I am sure I fell asleep long before the festivities were over but probably woke up as the local midnight hit. Then as now, some western folks were fond of shooting off their firearms to greet the year, mostly rather seriously intoxicated by that time.

There were also some fire crackers and possibly in a mining town even a stick of dynamite or two! That commodity was pretty readily available as many miners also did some prospecting on the side and some did the assessment work to file a claim on a patch of likely ground. At any rate, there would be quite a pandemonium for a little while. Once that died down, I was carried or urged back to my own bed.

This custom went on for a number of years, even a bit after Charlie was born and grew to a tyke  several years of age. He’d be snuggled in the middle then while I sprawled across the foot of the bed. He was then called Mike since Dad’s name was also Charles although he normally went by Chuck rather than Charlie. My brother was the third Charles Morgan although they each had different middle names. Charlie’s was Michael and he never did care for Mike, changing as soon as he got away from home. I rather did the same, even earlier. Saving that for another tale!

By the time we were too big to participate in this ritual, the music had changed a great deal. That happened very quickly in the middle to late fifties. Jazz was not the big band sound anymore but Dave Brubeck and Miles Davis did their brand and other later versions soon came along, mostly quite different and not greatly favored by our parents. As a teen I did stay up until midnight a few times but since I was not allowed to go out and party, it was not all that much fun by myself and the  house got cold when the fire was allowed to die. Thus it never got to be a habit.

To this day I cannot recall a single time I was out partying at the bewitching hour to whoop and cheer, get kissed or anything else.  Not even in college did I do this though some friends and I might have had a milder version in a dorm room or apartment. Have I missed some great rite or is it really that special? I can’t say, in all honesty. At any rate, I will spend this evening at home as usual, probably watch a bit of the traditional count-down on TV which still keeps a bit of the Dick Clark ambiance despite many more changes in the music that everyone expects to hear.

I confess to having developed a sneaking fondness for eggnog. I had never tasted it until I spent the holidays with my paternal aunts and uncle in California in 1965-66 and attended the big family dinners where I had my first taste of both wine and eggnog. My uncle’s wife at that time was French and was quite amenable to all the kids having a small glass of rose or some other wine with dinner. The kids were her four which Uncle had adopted and the three they produced plus one aunt’s two sons, only a bit younger than I was. I don’t think the eggnog was spiked but I decided I really preferred it, wine being an acquired taste. I enjoy some wines now but that was long ago. These days I prefer my eggnog with a good shot of rum and a generous sprinkle of nutmeg stirred in.  I’ll go fix one in a minute.

Right now I am listening to the bilingual program that is aired five evenings a week on the nearest PBS radio station from the campus of NMU at Las Cruces. I am not too fluent in Spanish but can understand most of what the hostess says in her native tongue before she gives the English version and I’ve always enjoyed all the Latin varieties of music. Later there will be jazz. I may listen to that  or turn on the TV for an hour or two since the news will be a bit patchy among bits and pieces of ABCs special coverage.

As I fall asleep—maybe before the local pandemonium begins but probably afterwards since the dogs will be a bit upset--I’ll think back with a bit of nostalgic melancholy to those long ago times listening to the music of a bygone day in the security of my parent’s bed. If I were an artist, I would paint the scene a la Rockwell; I can visualize clearly but in no way recreate it. So I have to make do with my words: comfort, mild excitement, longing to be ‘grown up’ and party, security and feeling special. The inner child barely stirs with the memories. Perhaps she’s been locked away too long.

Happy 2019 to one and all. May it be better than any previous ones but not quite as good as 2020 and others in the future. Go in peace and harmony!