Stroke of Midnight

For us west coasters, New Year’s stroke of midnight involves watching a re-play of New York’s staged celebrations on TV.  Apparently we don’t mind watching what’s already been viewed.  Perhaps it’s because we have a few hours up on them or fresher food to mack on.  I sugared my kids and guests up to keep them wide-eyed and pushed the Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider mainly because I feared I bought one bottle too many.  We played charades and had two of our own tiny female Psy Gangnam dancers following every move of the 2012 pop singing sensation from Korea.  When 2012 turned into 2013 I stuffed my slippered feet into flip-flops where plastic is supposed to go between the toes.  Like every other year I ran out on our front lawn with family and visiting friends shouting, “Happy New Year” into the hershey way sky while the kids banged wooden salad tongs on pots and pans and clanged saucepan lids together like cymbals.  My husband surprised me this year by tooting his coaching whistle and both my in-laws and neighbors separately planned their own percussion of tooting car horns with the mere push of buttons on their keychains.  As a friendly patrol car cruised by, an illegal pop of fireworks flashed in the sky followed by another bursting flare at the far edge of town.  There was no other place I would have rather been and I only administered two chewable Tums to one kid after midnight.



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